The Song
by LadyTP
Summary: Sansa has Sandor's child, but Sandor is gone. She thinks Sandor dead and with overwhelming pressure she remarries to secure a future for the North, for her people and her child. Eleven years later Sandor returns. Where was he? Why did he leave? Why did he come back? And what will happen now that he has returned?
1. The Maiden and the Warrior

**Author's Notes:** I found this story from my proverbial desk-drawer, this being something I wrote a while back in a CommFicMeme at Livejournal Sansa_Sandor following the prompt by **shigureblack**: _"Sansa has Sandor's child, but Sandor is gone. She thinks Sandor dead and with overwhelming pressure she remarries to secure a future for the North, for her people and her child. Eleven years later Sandor returns. Where was he? Why did he leave? Why did he come back? And what will happen now that he has returned? Give me conflict, angst drama and romance. I want it all!" _

_S_o for any angst and unhappiness: blame the prompter, she made me do it! Also be warned that Sandor in this story is mostly gentler in "post-QI" style. This story has been patiently and kindly beta'ed by my amazing and talented beta Wildsky – thank you once again, dear!

**_Summary:_** _Sandor's whole body was taut and his muscles hard as iron, and Sansa clung to him as if he was the only solid thing in a world that was whirling around her. His hold on her was strong and persistent, his eyes closed and his mouth set in a tight frown. He was familiar to her, but then, towering so overwhelmingly over her, also a stranger. _

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Eddor's namedays were the worst.

On those days he should have been with his father. On his first, as he was taking his earliest tentative steps, it should have been his father he staggered towards. On his third, throwing a ball filled with horsehair, it should have been his father he threw it to. On his seventh, when he started to extend his rides around Winterfell, it should have been his father he rode with. On his tenth, when he started to practice with a real blade, it should have been his father who gave him lessons.

But his father wasn't there.

Over the years Sansa had learned to accept it, yet every time the day came around she looked back, wondering for the hundredth and thousandth time what had happened to him.

* * *

Sandor came to her on that terrible night of green fire and death, cloaked in blood and gore and despair. She shied away from him first, but after noticing his fear to be greater than hers, her terror disappeared. Even his dagger on her throat didn't scare her. By the time Sansa felt his tears in the palm of her hand, she had reconciled herself to the fact that this huge man, this warrior without peers, had not come to hurt her but to help her.

They rode out that night and didn't look back.

Even years afterwards Sansa couldn't have pinpointed the moment during their journey when they changed from two people with nothing in common but an unspoken pact of convenience, duty and reward, to companions on a shared mission. Did it happen before or after she had been attacked by the desperate men of the woods, stragglers from the war, whom Sandor had butchered without a second thought? Or when they had hidden under a wooden bridge in the pouring rain while Lannister troops rode single file across it and over their heads? Sandor had wrapped Sansa inside his cloak and against his body so tightly that it had felt as if their hearts beat as one, loud and thumping in their ears.

Could it have been the morning when they had woken up to sunshine and clear skies and gathered handfuls of juicy brambleberries from nearby bushes? Sansa had laughed so hard her tummy had hurt at the sight of Sandor's mouth and teeth stained with purple juice. In return he had smeared his sticky hands across Sansa's face and she had ended up rolling on her back with laughter on the ground. Or was it the evening when he had drunk cheap wine from a cheap inn, and in the quiet of the night she had touched him on his shoulder? Sandor had rested his head against her hand – and she had realised that he was seeking comfort from her and her alone.

Whenever it happened, the change was profound. Although Sandor still kept his distance and acted aloof and austere most of the time, the silence between them changed from awkward and tense to comfortable and companionable. Sansa started to trust him like she had trusted no man before except her father. They set on a course to Riverrun to her brother and mother, and she knew he would keep his promise and deliver her to her family.

And so they travelled; the maiden and the warrior.

* * *

As their journey progressed, Sansa tried to convince Sandor to stay with House Stark. He only snorted.

"You truly think the Young Wolf would accept Lannister dog into his service, a man known to be craven?"

"I will ask him that, and with your reputation as the best fighter in Westeros, he would be a fool not to!"

"Not everyone will do your bidding as neatly as I have, little bird," he muttered and turned away. Sansa didn't give up and followed him.

"But I need you!"

"What would you need me for? After I have delivered you to your kin my task is done."

"I…need you to protect me… and to help us to retake the North." Sansa's voice trailed off as if she wasn't sure that either of those reasons was good enough.

Sandor looked at her, bemused. "You will be well protected by your folk. And I am sure that the Young Wolf will get the North back just fine without my help. No, I will be my own man now. Might be I'll look for work as a sellsword."

Sansa stared at the ground despondently. "What if I need you later?" Trust between two people can take a long time to form, but once established, is one of the most precious things there is. To be deprived of such association is a terrible thing indeed.

Sandor leaned closer to her, his breath on her face. "If you need me, just send me a song."

"A song?" Sansa glared at him suspiciously.

"Aye, a song of the Little Bird and the Hound." He withdrew and the corner of his mouth was twitching, making Sansa to realise that he was japing.

* * *

It happened on the last night of their journey.

Sandor made their camp near a small stream and ordered her to make herself presentable.

"Would I take a wildling girl to Riverrun, trying to pass her off as a noble maiden? As that's what they would believe if I took you as you are now, for sure they would," he grumbled.

Only then did Sansa become aware of how dishevelled and dirty they were, their clothes splattered by mud and filth. To her surprise - and without conscious thought - she had actually enjoyed shedding the exterior of a privileged maiden. That they both smelled of sweat and grime and wore tattered clothes served as an equaliser, intensifying the bond that had grown between them.

So they stayed, taking turns washing their bodies and clothes in the stream while the other waited at the camp. While their clothes dried, they covered themselves by wrapping blankets around their bodies as best as they could. That level of informality was highly inappropriate, but they had left King's Landing in such a hurry that one set of clothes to wear was all they had.

Sansa dreamt of the welcoming embrace of her mother, of the wide grin on her brother's face and the security and joy of knowing she was finally safe. No more living in fear of what new torments the next day would bring, and no more misery of knowing that her father's murderers owned her life and body and there was nothing she could do about it.

She turned towards Sandor, whose inadequate cover had left his upper body naked. At other times she would have averted her eyes as modesty dictated, but her heart was full of gratitude towards him, so she didn't care. Gratitude… and something more.

Without thinking she moved closer to him, placed her hand on his bare shoulder and told him so. He stared at her, told her not to talk rubbish and tried to push her hand away. Some strange madness took hold of Sansa then and she laid both of her hands on his body, feeling his hard muscles tensing under her touch. She pressed her face against his shoulder, deeming her closeness and her touch to be the only way to convey what she meant, as her words were being so absolutely rebuffed.

Sansa trusted Sandor so implicitly that even after he stopped resisting and pulled her against him, his large hands caressing her body and touching her in places nobody had touched before, she felt no apprehension. When he pushed her to the ground, shoved their covers aside and shifted his powerful naked body on top of hers, she didn't feel fear. Even after she felt his knee pressing between her legs to separate them, she had faith in him. He will do me no harm.

When she felt Sandor's hard member against her thigh, she wasn't able to escape the knowledge of what was happening any longer. Yet rather than recoiling from it, she welcomed it, accepting the inevitability of it without a question. She was a young girl and a maiden, but she was also on the cusp of womanhood and curious about what lay on the other side. Things she had seen and lived through had accelerated her transformation and she felt ready. Ready for him.

Sandor's whole body was taut and his muscles hard as iron, and Sansa clung to him as if he was the only solid thing in a world that was whirling around her. His hold on her was strong and persistent, his eyes closed and his mouth set in a tight frown. He was familiar to her, but then, towering so overwhelmingly over her, also a stranger.

As he entered her, he caused her pain, but still he didn't hurt her. She yielded to it and welcomed the intrusion because along with it came so much more; strange sensations her body had not felt before and was only starting to process.

Before she realised, it was all over. A few last desperate thrusts and Sandor stilled, muffling a groan from deep within his throat. His stillness left Sansa on the brink of something elusive, something her body had slowly been building towards without her conscious participation. Whatever it was, it was snatched away from her reach when Sandor collapsed on top of her, heaving and trembling.

She had a curious awareness that despite all his strength, at that moment she was stronger than him. She stroked his back and murmured softly into his ear. Sandor's stifled words against her skin sounded like quiet curses, falling against the hollow of her throat. She refused to hear them and hummed and twirled her fingers through his hair. Eventually he tried to move away from her, his face a terrible visage of quiet anguish, but Sansa resisted and pulled him back.

For the rest of her life she would never forget the feeling of his warm body flush against hers as they lay under the blankets, skin against skin.

* * *

Sandor got up in the morning and dressed under a heavy cloud of misery. His eyes avoided Sansa's, leaving her confused. She felt even closer to him after what had transpired, but he appeared more distant than ever.

Sansa went back to the stream and washed the blood from her thighs, contemplating the fact that she was now a woman indeed. The loss of her maidenhood was a serious matter, but she refused to think about it. She didn't have regrets, and couldn't understand why he was so angry.

"If it ever becomes known, tell your kin that you were raped. For that it was, plain and simple. You trusted me and I despoiled you. That is the kind of dog I am; you should have never left with me, little bird." Sandor's face was hard as he helped her onto his horse.

"You didn't rape me, how could you have? I didn't resist…I wanted it," Sansa argued. He didn't listen and she recognised that he had escaped deep into his own world, shutting everything else out, including her.

Once we get to Riverrun and he has time to think it through, he will realise he did no such thing. He didn't let me down. Sansa had no thoughts as to what might happen once they got to their destination, but she was not worried. She would think of something.

* * *

They were close to the castle when Sandor stopped and told her to wait in a secure spot among the trees.

"Better I go first and scout the situation. If all is safe, I will get your brother's men to come and get you. Stay still and you will be with your family soon."

Sansa protested, but to no avail. "You will come back too, won't you? I will be waiting," she told him. He looked at her for a long time, his eyes cold and grey, then turned his horse and rode away.

The morning had turned into afternoon by the time Sansa heard the noise of men on horseback. As she cautiously peered beyond the trees, to her relief she saw Robb riding towards her in front of a strongly armed group of soldiers.

But Sandor wasn't among them. He didn't return to her – not then, not ever.


	2. The Little Bird and The Hound

**_Summary:_** _He fought in all the Free Cities, then went across Dothraki Sea to Slaver's Bay, spent many years in Lhazar and finally ended up near Asshai. He fought for political factions, for religious sects, for trade guilds – he didn't care, as long as they paid him enough and provided him with battles in which to practice his deadly trade._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor had never been used to sitting idle with nothing but his own thoughts keeping him company. The last time had been after Gregor had burned his face and killed his childhood. Was there anything left in him to be destroyed, he wondered during long hours of restless agony in his bed.

The silent men had found him on the battlefield, days after a savage conflict had taken place. The surviving members of the sellsword company he had belonged to had escaped, taking with them only the walking wounded. The victorious armies of Asshai had collected their own dead and left those of their enemies to rot where they had fallen.

Sandor should have died there, of the wounds on his body and the pestilence in his blood. Despite all that he had not, and when the silent men saw him moving, they took him to their community. He had almost died there too, but the tireless care by the community elder had brought him back. However, although his life had been saved, the great wound in his leg required a long recovery.

At times he cursed his saviours. He would have preferred to die on the field, as was his fate. He had known that since he had first taken a life and been rewarded for it. He had realised that his life had no other purpose but to fulfil the orders of others and forget he had ever been anything else but a remorseless weapon of war.

He had been good at his role as a Lannister man-at-arms; pragmatic, unemotional and efficient. Any shred of care and compassion he might have felt when he was younger towards a defenceless animal or a child, had died – just like stray dogs and kittens he had befriended during his lonely childhood. They had all been slaughtered, first by Gregor, later by cruel squires and stableboys at Casterly Rock, just to torment the ugly monster amongst them. By the time he had grown strong enough to punish them, his heart had hardened and his eyes didn't see the sweet innocence and vulnerability of such creatures anymore.

Sometimes people misjudged him and thought he hated everything and everyone. They were wrong. He didn't hate – he just didn't care. He had thought he would live for the rest of his life thus, without emotions, knowing it would end with the strike of a sword or the thrust of a dagger.

Then Sansa Stark had entered his life.

He hadn't paid attention to her for a long time, really. She had been pretty and defenceless with her big blue eyes and the look of a startled animal, but that hadn't appealed to him. If anything, he had been curious to see how long she would last. How long would it take before she crumbled and broke into pieces and her still breathing body, dead from the inside, was displayed for the whole court to see as a trophy for the Lannisters?

Except it hadn't happened.

She had endured all that had been put to her; the execution of her father, Cersei's mistreatment and Joffrey's tortures – and she hadn't shattered. More than that, she had still had empathy for others; for Tommen, for Myrcella, even for him. Sandor couldn't understand that. And so, ever so subtly, Sansa Stark started to penetrate his defences, bit by bit breaching layers that hadn't been disturbed for years.

Looking back, Sandor couldn't have said what made him go to her that night, or why he had taken her with him when leaving the city. On some days he prided himself on his pragmatism, how he had secured a piece of the game for himself. A pawn to be used when needed, after he had left the only masters he had ever known. On some days he admitted to himself that his instinct on that horror-filled night had been to seek comfort anyway he could, even if it meant ripping it out of the soft body of a girl who had been shown to possess an endless pool of compassion. Still on some days he acknowledged that a force stronger than himself had directed his steps, and he had been helpless to resist it. Solace, consolation, affirmation that his life was worth something – those things he had searched for.

As unaccustomed to voicing such matters as he was, he had resorted to the only language he knew - that of cynicism, threats and violence. Despite all that, she had gone with him.

* * *

After leaving King's Landing Sandor had eventually recovered his wits as he had sobered up. He decided to take the girl to her relatives, then leave and seek his fortune across the sea. He knew that sellsword companies needed men like him just as he knew that he wouldn't be welcomed by Robb Stark, even if he had saved his precious sister. The Young Wolf might pay him a hefty reward, but would send him away just the same, keen to get rid of the Lannister dog.

Sandor hadn't taken into consideration, however, how his defensive armour got chipped away chink by chink by her presence and the way she looked at him like he was actually worth something. Nobody had seen him that way before, and like a cold and weary traveller seeing a warm, welcoming fire, he felt drawn towards her.

Despite accepting his softening stance towards her, he didn't lose his pragmatism. He knew his life and fate had been set a long time ago and all he could aim for was to do this one good deed and then be gone. When the girl started chirping about wanting him to stay, he had to set her straight. Sandor was well aware of what would happen otherwise. Even in the unlikely event that he was accepted to the service of House Stark, he would always be despised for what he was. He didn't care about that; he was used to it and had endured much worse. The only look of distaste he knew he couldn't bear was hers.

He recognised that just like a shipwrecked man desperate to hold on to something – anything - to keep him floating, the little bird had clung to him in her own despair. He had been like an old, dented wine cask, seemingly a gift from the gods in the middle of the ocean. Yet when a man reached dry land and saw what he had been clutching, he let it go and walked away and Sandor knew that one day she would do the same. She would stare at him with disdain and turn from him, and he didn't want to see that realisation in her eyes. No, he would leave before that could happen.

So he japed with her about the song. _The song of the Little Bird and the Hound._ Who had ever heard of such a song? Yet it worked and shut her up.

* * *

Sandor was a man who prided himself on always being in control of everything he did. Even when he drank and got caught up in a mindless fight, or passed out in the corridors of Red Keep, he was in control as he had chosen to let himself do that. He had planned to forget everything for a night of wine-fuelled stupor. When he woke up the next morning with dried vomit caked across his chest, he picked himself up and continued his life as before; efficiently, with a purpose.

Hence that last night of their journey brought with it the two most profound shocks of his life; the complete loss of his iron-willed control and the purest ecstasy he had ever experienced. The two of them intermingled in his mind even as it happened, making him hate himself and yet love every moment at the same time.

Aye, he was a man and his cock had hardened at the curve of her bottom as she bent to pick up something, or at the way her breasts pressed against her tattered dress. He ignored it though, swearing to himself that he would not sully her, nor turn into one of those beasts she was running away from.

He intended only to teach her a lesson; how she couldn't go about touching men with her soft hands and expect nothing to happen. Instead of shrinking away in fear as he expected, Sansa surprised him by yielding to his touch and opening herself in a way that was both innocent and seductive. Something inside Sandor broke then and a rush of desire and yearning washed over him, drowning every cool thought in his head.

* * *

As soon as the dreamlike encounter on that fateful night was over, reality seized Sandor in its cold hard grip. He had raped the girl, and with that shown himself to be as evil as those she had left behind. Even if for a shortest moment on their travels he had given in to the thought that it was not too late, perhaps he could still become a different man, he knew then that it was not to be.

The only thing he could do was to get away from her and disappear for good. Sansa would never get back what he had so thoughtlessly stolen, but in time she would heal and move on with her life.

Before he left, he fulfilled his promise. That was the last act of good he could ever do for her, and even though it could never compensate for the harm he had done, at least he would know she was safe. After announcing her whereabouts to her astonished brother, Sandor guarded her from a distance until her brother reached her. He observed their meeting from afar and saw Sansa's happiness in the way she ran to him. The flash of red hair trailing behind her slight frame was the last image of her he took with him, as he turned his horse and started his flight away from the only good thing he had ever had.

He travelled across the Narrow Sea, fighting his way from one sellsword company to another. He joined the Golden Company first, but when they announced their intention to cross the sea to Westeros, he left them for the Second Sons. He fought in all the Free Cities, then went across Dothraki Sea to Slaver's Bay, spent many years in Lhazar and finally ended up near Asshai. He fought for political factions, for religious sects, for trade guilds – he didn't care, as long as they paid him enough and provided him with battles in which to practice his deadly trade.

* * *

Gradually Sandor started to move around among the silent men, taking up light duties to exercise his wasted muscles. The community consisted of those who had come together under no religious flag; just men who had seen too much and who wanted to spend the rest of their days in quiet contemplation. Their elder spent many evenings with Sandor talking about religion and philosophy, and in his crippled state Sandor couldn't escape and was forced to hear his words.

Some of them stuck, some didn't. Whether it was those words or the way he felt compelled to look back at his life, slowly he realised that his desire to go back to fighting had started to diminish. Maybe there was another way to live. Maybe these men were not so stupid after all.

So Sandor stayed, finding his place in doing all the hard work requiring strength and perseverance; building, digging graves, clearing the land for their modest crops. He grew stronger and his leg healed. Although called silent men, his companions were not bound by a vow of silence, and conversations with them allowed him to learn more about them. Many were like him, cynical men who had thought themselves lost from the world. Some were remorseful about the bad deeds of their past while some accepted that their fate had been in the hands of gods.

He realised then that he was not the only displaced soul and that others had suffered and hardened themselves like he had. They had found peace, so maybe it was not too late for him. Against his expectations, little by little, he left his old life behind and accepted a new way of living.

* * *

One of Sandor's tasks in the community was to go the city every now and then for supplies. On one of these trips, to his surprise, he heard a familiar language. It had been years since he had heard the lilt of the Common Tongue, and out of curiosity he followed the voices.

Soon he found himself with a small group of adventurous merchants on their journey to trade with exotic spices. They welcomed him warmly enough, astounded to find a fellow countryman so far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Sandor spent an evening hearing their news and the stories travellers in faraway lands tended to share about their adventures. He had heard already that House Targaryen had returned to the Iron Throne, but now he discovered that with them Westeros had finally reached a peace that had already lasted several years. Prosperity had returned and all kingdoms were united.

At the end of the evening and after several cups of sweet wine from Asshai, the mood turned wistful. They were all strangers in a foreign land, and on a break from their exertions they looked back on their faraway home. Among the merchants was a singer, who took out his harp and started to pluck its chords. The others began to shout suggestions for the songs he should play.

"Sing us 'The Dornishman's Wife'," called a youth from Dorne.

"Give us 'My Lady Wife'," bellowed an old man from the Riverlands.

"Why don't you sing 'The Little Bird and the Hound'," urged a fat man from the Crownlands.

Sandor's head shot up. What in seven hells? He turned to the man and growled, "What song is that? I travelled widely across Westeros in my time and I never heard that song."

The man looked at him in surprise. "'The Little Bird and the Hound' is a famous song. You really haven't heard it before?"

"No, I can't say I have. What kind of a song is it?"

"It is a love story, and a sad one, as the best ones always are. It tells about a little bird and a hound, who travel together, the hound protecting the bird. They fall in love but then the hound leaves, leaving the bird alone and breaking her heart. I'm afraid it doesn't have a happy ending."

Sandor's head buzzed. Could that be just a coincidence? He moved closer to the fat merchant, who looked uncomfortable about the attention the huge, scarred man was paying to him.

"Tell me more. Tell me everything you know about that song." His voice was low and intense, and the merchant was eyeing him with increasing concern.

"Well…I don't know that much about it, really. It became popular many years ago, maybe five years or more. I heard it said that a noble lady from the north invited singers to her castle and asked them to write a song. After the winning song was chosen, she sent all of them to different parts of Westeros to sing it in taverns and markets." As Sandor didn't show any further aggression, he regained his composure and continued more confidently.

"Nobody really knows why it is the bird and the hound, such an unlikely pairing. One would understand if it was the dragon and the falcon, or the stag and the wolf, but over time people got used to it. It really has become one of the most popular songs in the realm. Heartbroken lovers especially are taken by it." He squinted his eyes, looking thoughtful.

"I think I also heard that the lady in question had a wolf as her sigil, and hence it was even more mysterious why the song is about the hound and not the wolf. Not that the wolf and the bird would be any less unlikely …" He continued talking, but Sandor didn't listen anymore, stunned by what he was hearing.

"Listen, he is starting to sing it now! Hear it yourself," the fat man tugged Sandor's arm. The singer plucked the harp and started with his melodious voice:

_"Together they travelled, the little bird and the hound,_

_Across the land, unlikely passion they found…"_


	3. The Fiercest Love

**_Summary:_** _Finally Sansa held her firstborn in her arms and the moment she looked at his eyes, gazing at her so searchingly, she felt a deep well of emotions opening up inside her. This boy, with his tuft of dark hair and clear eyes, was not just flesh of her flesh. He was also part of him, and she loved her babe with all the ferocity of a mother wolf._

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa cried a river of tears during her first weeks at Riverrun, in keeping with the name of the place. She shed tears of joy for being reunited with her kin, but also bitter tears of sorrow for the way Sandor had left without a word. When she accosted Robb about it, he was equally at a loss.

"He came to the castle unarmed, told us about you and left. I was suspicious, thinking it a Lannister ruse, and sent our scouts out to check for a trap." Robb glanced at Sansa apologetically and continued, "Hence it took a while before we came. I thought he would at least follow us once we found you, to collect his reward."

"What do you mean 'follow'?" Sansa insisted, a slight edge of hysteria in her voice. Robb looked at her with concern on his face.

"We saw him near your hiding place, just above the ridge. It appeared that he meant to make sure we reached you. I believed he was just avoiding being captured and planned to come to us once we knew he spoke true."

Neither Robb nor Catelyn understood why she was so desperate to find out where Sandor had gone. They could hardly believe he had delivered Sansa back to them, were dumbfounded that he didn't come to demand his prize, but were happy to let that be. Whatever had made him do it, the main thing was that Sansa was safe, and nothing else mattered to them.

Sansa tried to think of every possible reason he might have had for leaving. Had she been too wanton, had she lost his respect and hence he didn't want to stay with her? It would have been unfair, she knew, but men could think strangely about matters of honour. She dismissed that quickly though; Sandor was not like other men, those things would surely not have mattered to him.

Had she been a disappointment for him, not knowing how men and woman were supposed to truly lay together? That stung. She was so inexperienced, how could she have known how to behave? Or had he simply never intended anything more than to deliver her to safety and leave? Had he been biding his time to get away as soon as he could? Had she been stupid enough to believe that there had been something more than that between them?

None of those thoughts helped her nor brought her the answers she was looking for. He was simply gone and unlikely to ever come back.

With Sansa safe and Arya's whereabouts unknown, Robb considered his next move. Stannis Baratheon had conquered King's Landing and imprisoned the Lannisters, so Robb's need for justice for his father was been played out even without his involvement. Sansa's news about how it had been an open secret at the court that House Frey was planning to betray the North meant that Robb quickly cancelled any plans of joining the houses of Tully and Frey.

The news from Winterfell about the ironborn conquest and death of their brothers had been dire, so Robb decided to turn his host back towards the North. Sansa was finally on her way home.

* * *

It took Lady Catelyn's sharp eyes to detect that Sansa was with child. Sansa had been feeling sick on their slow trek, but she had thought it was her sorrow that ailed her so. One evening Lady Catelyn saw her in her nightshift and gasped in horror at the sight of a slight bump in her otherwise slender figure.

"Sansa! You…haven't been with a man, have you, my child?!" Catelyn's voice was shrill, desperate. Sansa looked at her in surprise. She hadn't told anyone about what had happened between her and Sandor. It was not their business and she didn't want to sully the memory of it, knowing how her kin would disapprove. No, she held on to it as something precious. Even if it carried a slight taint of pain, it had also contained a tantalising glimpse of pleasure and fulfilment, and been the closest she had ever felt to another human being.

"Why do you ask, mother?"

"Sansa, answer me. Have you lain with a man? Or has anyone…taken you against your will?"

"Nobody has taken me against my will," Sansa murmured with a sigh. Catelyn eyed her with suspicion and came closer, putting her hand against her belly.

"Tell me, when did you have your moonblood last?" Sansa had to think. It had been months… Suddenly she realised what her mother meant, and gulped. _It can't be!_

* * *

Her mother whispered to her about herbs she could take to get rid of the babe, but Sansa resolutely refused to entertain any such thoughts. Lady Catelyn insisted that Sansa tell her how she had ended up in such a state, thinking it might have been the doing of her betrothed, King Joffrey. When Sansa told her the truth, she refused to accept anything but that Sandor had raped her.

For all Sansa's protestations that it hadn't been like that, Catelyn only looked at her with desperation. "You may think so now, but the reality is that the brute took advantage of you and used you in most deplorable way. No wonder he left before you could tell us about his wrongdoing."

In time Sansa grew heavy with the child, all the time thinking of what Sandor would say if he knew. Would he be happy? Would he want to be part of his child's life? When her time eventually came, Robb had reconquered Winterfell and she took to her birthing bed in her ancestral home.

Her labour was long and hard; she was still so young and the babe was big. It took two days and nights and all the skill the old woman from Wintertown had, she who had birthed hundreds of babes. Finally Sansa held her firstborn in her arms and the moment she looked at his eyes, gazing at her so searchingly, she felt a deep well of emotions opening up inside her. This boy, with his tuft of dark hair and clear eyes, was not just flesh of her flesh. He was also part of _him,_ and she loved her babe with all the ferocity of a mother wolf.

* * *

Lady Catelyn wanted her to name the babe Eddard in memory of his grandsire. Sansa wanted to name him Sandor in memory of his father. For a long time they warred on the matter, but finally settled on Eddor. Sansa looked at her son and swore that when he grew up, she would tell him about his father. Not the story her mother and brother held on to, that of betrayal of trust and rape, but the true story of…what _was_ the true story? On her part it was the story of faith and affection and…love. On Sandor's part, she couldn't say.

* * *

The North was at peace. Robb had bent the knee to Stannis and peace had descended over Westeros. Sansa was happy in Winterfell, seeing her son grow up to be stout and strong and so much like his sire. He had the northern look about him: grey eyes, dark hair and strong cheekbones for a chubby baby boy.

She tried to work through her grief for Sandor, but it was difficult. She still felt his absence like a raw wound, but as Eddor's first name day approached, she suddenly came to a realisation. _He told me what I should do if I needed him!_ _He told me to send him a song. A song about the Little Bird and the Hound_. Sansa knew Sandor had been jesting at the time, but that was all she had.

With a renewed vigour she sent ravens to all the kingdoms with messages to be read out aloud in town squares. The missives invited all singers and songwriters to Winterfell for a competition for a song. As they started to arrive, bewildered but curious, she gave them one mission and one alone.

"Write a song of the Little Bird and the Hound, of their journey, of the love they shared and the heartache the bird felt after the hound left. The winner will get a purse of gold, and all the others will get gold dragons to go out to all Seven Kingdoms and sing that song to everyone who cares to listen."

The singers had eyed each other curiously, but an offer of gold was too good to refuse. Many songs were sung but in the end there was one winner, and that song she sent across the realm.

Lady Catelyn and Robb didn't understand at all what she was doing, but they humoured her, thinking that to be a way for her to finally deal with her grief and have closure.

When Sansa saw the last of the singers on their way, she felt as if her last hope of ever reaching Sandor went with them. For the next year she wished for his return; every visitor arriving at Winterfell raised her hopes but inevitably led to deep despair when she realised it was not him.

The song became famous and was sung throughout the kingdoms – but Sandor never came.

* * *

Eventually Sansa gave up all hope. Sandor was surely dead, lost in some mythical place where fallen warriors ended up. All she had of him were memories – and his son.

Sansa would have been happy to live as an aunt to Robb and Jeyne's growing brood, a maiden mother. Yet when Eddor reached his third nameday, Robb and Catelyn insisted that she should get married. They felt Sansa was wasting herself by being alone – and more legitimate children would not harm House Stark. Sansa didn't welcome their entreaties, but as Catelyn came up with more and more reasons for a marriage to go ahead, including the need for Eddor to have a father, she finally gave in.

The groom they chose should not have been a surprise; Willas Tyrell was still unmarried despite his high birth. Sansa felt for Willas, knowing they were both damaged goods; he because he was a cripple, she because she had given birth to a bastard.

Their courtship was short and impersonal, their wedding taking place in Highgarden with only the closest family members present. Sansa's condition for the union to go ahead had been Willas's acceptance of Eddor, which he had readily given.

Over the next few years Sansa grew fond of her husband but she never felt anything remotely similar to what she had felt with Sandor.

She thought of him often. She had given up trying to understand his reasons for leaving, but looking back she realised things she had not understood before. She saw how Sandor had always been there for her, and although she had been too young and timid to understand it then, had probably even loved her in his own gruff way. She also accepted that her own feelings had been much more than gratitude. She had learned to read him better than probably anyone else, and had seen the man he could have been if fate – and Gregor – had not interfered. That was the man she fell for; his sense of honour, his honesty, his loyalty and his intelligence pulling her towards him.

However, all that came too late, much too late! She wanted to love again, she wanted to shake the memory of a man long dead out of her mind, but obstinately it came back to her, time after time. She tried to love Willas, but all her attempts failed as she couldn't help comparing him to her first love.

They tried for a babe of their own, out of duty and, perhaps on Willas's part, out of some secret desire of his. Nonetheless, Sansa's womb never quickened. When that became obvious, they gave up their awkward couplings and resigned themselves to living in a childless marriage.

Sansa never felt at home so far in the south, but it was only when she heard Eddor being teased as a bastard that she realised it was time for them to go home.

* * *

Sansa and Willas parted on good terms, both secretly relieved to have freed themselves from a cordial but loveless bond. They stayed married, naturally, but from thereon their interactions consisted of letters and gifts on their namedays. Life settled back to normal for Sansa; she was the daughter, the aunt and the mother, a lady of Winterfell alongside Lady Catelyn and Lady Jeyne, helping them to run the lordly household. Eddor grew alongside Robb's children, accepted as their true cousin. Sansa made sure Lady Catelyn could never have the same influence over how Eddor was treated as she had had over Jon, and Eddor grew up a happy, confident boy.

The highlights of their years after Sansa came back were Arya's return, and that of Rickon. Arya had escaped the War of Five Kings across the Narrow Sea and spent the intervening years in a mystical house of religion. She had changed a lot, but as years went by, the old Arya started to gradually emerge.

Rickon had been hiding in the far north on the Island of Skagos, and for him too it had taken many years to adapt to the genteel lifestyle of Westeros nobility. They also heard of Bran, and how he had not died at the hands of Ironborn, but travelled far north and become a powerful spiritual being. As much as they all missed him, they accepted that his fate had been different from theirs.

With most of her family back, at times Sansa could almost forget the sad experiences they had all gone through. Overall, life was good.


	4. Reunion

**Author's Notes: **Geez, thank you very much for your lovely, encouraging comments! I love these commficmemes as they do present challenges one would otherwise never tackle… This was certainly one of them, with all the angst and lost years. Happy if it strikes a chord with you!

**_ Summary:_** _"I don't think I have seen you here before," she started, then saw Sandor's face and stopped. Sandor glanced under his brow and saw an expression of utter shock on her face. Sansa started to open her mouth to say something, but before she could do so, the colour drained from her face, her eyes rolled back and she fell to the ground, fainting on the spot._

* * *

**Sandor**

Sandor made the journey that had first taken him years in only months after leaving the silent men. All the while he asked himself if he was making a mistake. The song may not have been a coincidence, if what the fat man told him was true, but it had been a long time since it had been written. If the little bird had needed him then, he was already years too late. Yet he had to know. Even if the reason why Sansa had needed him was gone, he had to see it with his own eyes.

He travelled by ship to Qarth, traversed the Red Waste by horse, joined a caravan to traverse the Dothraki Sea and rode from Qohor to Braavos. Day by day, week by week, month by month. The song played in his mind every night, its words etched in his memory. Surely the words were an exaggeration, a romantic love story written purely with the purpose of ensuring its popularity. A song about an angry hound and a scared little bird, ending with an ultimate betrayal, would not have attracted the following a fanciful tale of love and broken hearts had.

Luckily he still had some gold from his days as a sellsword and it bought him the passage he needed, a horse and the means of living during the long trip. Whenever he saw travellers from Westeros he talked to them, asking about the political situation and news of the great houses. He heard confirmations that the Seven Kingdoms had indeed enjoyed peace for years, ruled by not one but two Dragons. The Mad King Aerys' daughter Daenerys, the Mother of Dragons, ruled alongside her nephew, the long lost son of Rhaegar, King Aegon VI. They had not married as tradition dictated, but ruled jointly nonetheless.

Some of the big houses had fallen, some had survived. Most of the might of House Lannister was gone. The Kingslayer and Lord Tywin were dead, the former executed by the Dragons, the latter dying of a malady of some sort as a disappointed and crushed man after the death of his golden son. Cersei and her children were kept in perpetual imprisonment in the Red Keep, and Lord Imp ruled in Casterly Rock as the Warden of the West. Sandor laughed at that. The Imp had always been the cleverest of the lot and it was only fitting that he should survive where others perished.

Of House Stark he heard only that the Young Wolf was still ruling as the Warden of the North. To his questions about the ladies of the house his countrymen had no answers. Women were not as important as men, and their circumstances rarely made the news.

He took a ship from Braavos to White Harbour and from there it was only a matter of a fast ride to Winterfell. On the way he observed the prosperity of the countryside, so different from the time he had last seen it. He wondered if there was a place for him in Westeros after the purpose of his trip was fulfilled. A community of quiet men, preferably without the religion. He still didn't care much about the gods after he had learned to recognise that every man had all he needed for his salvation inside him. Maybe he would set up his new life on his own; build a house in a small village somewhere and live a tranquil existence. He didn't think he had it in him to go back to Asshai – it had done what it could to him by changing the course of his life.

Sandor had continued his enquiries in White Harbour and there, so close to the seat of their liege lord, information had been more abundant. Yes, the ladies of Winterfell were known there. To his questioning stare he was told that both sisters of the Young Wolf had joined him, the younger one returning from across the sea several years ago. The innkeeper who told him that recalled that one of the ladies was married, but couldn't remember which one. Sandor grew frustrated but his impatience didn't improve the innkeeper's memory. Nonetheless, he was done with waiting for information before getting on his way towards the north, keen to complete his long journey.

As he approached Winterfell, Sandor became increasingly unsure of what he should do. He couldn't just march in and ask to see the little bird. If she would even agree to see him, that is. So he stopped at Wintertown, which had grown into a permanent village full of life and activity, took a room at the inn and considered what to do next.

He knew the main purpose of his journey was to see that Sansa was safe and that the need prompting the song had receded. If so, maybe it would be best that she wouldn't see _him_ – it had been too many years, and she probably thought him dead. Better that way. Yet he had travelled far to be there, so a day after his arrival he cautiously entered the large courtyard of Winterfell. He wore his stained travel cloak, hood pulled across his head, allowing him to see his surroundings without people seeing much of his face.

Years of peace had relaxed the security and he was allowed in with no questions asked. The keep was busy, people coming and going in all directions. He settled on a bench in a corner and observed the proceedings. He was happy to wait there, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sansa, or maybe talk to someone in the household to hear more about how things stood.

He had waited for a while before he saw a familiar figure entering the yard from the keep. He recognised her immediately; her hair was as vividly auburn as he remembered, and her bearing as graceful as it had always been. She was not a young girl anymore, but a woman in her full bloom. Her form was curvier, different to the slender shape of the girl he had known, and her hips swayed alluringly when she walked. Her face was rounder too, her eyes still brilliant blue and full of confidence, and her mouth looked like it had smiled a lot lately. Her beauty struck him in a way he hadn't been prepared for.

Seeing her, so full of life and energy and so achingly beautiful, Sandor felt his age more than ever before. He was still under forty, but he had lived a hard life and felt it. He had recovered well enough from his last battle, but the wounds of old had started to bother him lately, ghost pains of past hurts echoing through his body. He knew that the prime of his life was past him, and that made it even harder to see her, still in the full flower of her womanhood.

She was talking to a man, some sort of commander of the guards from the looks of it. Sandor saw her smiling to him and felt a strange sensation – he wanted to hit the man just for the audacity of being in her presence. The commander didn't seem disturbed though, behaving with utmost respect towards Sansa. They talked keenly, Sansa gesturing to him with a far-reaching motion across the yard. Her eyes followed the gesture and swept past Sandor. He shrank in place, turning his face away, hoping she hadn't noticed him.

Sansa's gaze moved away, but then returned. From the corner of his eye Sandor saw her furrowing her brow. _Seven hells!_ He stood up slowly, trying to act casual, and turned to walk towards the gate. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when he heard her voice behind him.

"Good man, can you please stop? I would like to exchange a few words with you, if I may." Sandor stopped, dropping his shoulders. He was trapped. For a moment he considered breaking into a run and making it to the gate, ignoring her. He could see, however, that the attention of the guards had turned on him, and one of them had placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. No, if he wanted to get away, he would have to do some fighting, and he didn't want that.

Slowly he spun around and waited for Sansa to catch up with him, keeping his eyes downcast. She walked towards him unhurriedly, cocking her head with a mild look of curiosity on her face.

"I don't think I have seen you here before," she started, then saw Sandor's face and stopped. Sandor glanced under his brow and saw an expression of utter shock on her face. Sansa started to open her mouth to say something, but before she could do so, the colour drained from her face, her eyes rolled back and she fell to the ground, fainting on the spot.


	5. My Son, Our Son

**_Summary:_**_ "This is my son Eddor. He will be one-and ten on his next nameday. And Willas is not his father." Sansa's stare had something defiant in it, as if she expected him to challenge her. Sandor glared at her. If her husband was not the boy's father, who was? Then he realised what she had just said. __**One-and-ten on his next nameday.**_

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor looked about him with alarm. What was he supposed to do? He had been right; he shouldn't have shown himself to the little bird. The commander with whom Sansa had just conversed came running, hand on his sword hilt, shouting.

"What did you do to our lady?" He knelt beside Sansa, gesturing for the guards to seize Sandor, who still stood on the spot, as bewildered as the others.

"My lady! My lady, are you well?" The commander patted Sansa's hands and lifted her to a half-seated position. Sandor saw Sansa's eyelids flutter as she started to regain consciousness. Others came running to the site and soon they were surrounded by worried servants and men-at-arms, fussing about their lady. A maid brought her a jug of water, another dipped a piece of cloth in it and wiped Sansa's forehead. All the while Sandor stared at her, hating himself for causing her yet another moment of distress.

Eventually Sansa opened her eyes and, despite her weakness, seemed to gather her wits.

"I am…fine, it is all well now. I was just overtaken by the heat…" People glanced at each other, confused. It was not a particularly warm day and Sansa wore only a light dress, not even a cloak over it.

She saw Sandor and looked as if she was about to faint again – but she held her composure.

"I am sorry that you had to witness this incident. Rest assured I am perfectly fine now." She gestured for the maids to help her get up, and slowly got to her feet. The others, seeing that everything seemed to be in order, started to gradually drift away, leaving only Sansa, the commander, two guards and Sandor.

Sansa straightened herself and looked at Sandor again, her gaze serious.

"I still would like to exchange a few words with you, if I may. Maybe we could sit down for a moment?" She pointed at the very bench Sandor had been sitting on. He obeyed reluctantly, and saw Sansa gesturing to others to leave them. She sat down next to him, smoothing her dress with her hands. Sandor noticed they were shaking slightly.

Once they were alone, neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually Sansa whispered, "Where have you been? All these years…"

"Across the Narrow Sea; in the Free Cities, Slaver's Bay, Lhazar and Asshai. Fought in the sellsword companies."

Sansa looked at him with a level of intensity that unnerved Sandor. The eyes that had been so bright before were dark as sapphires, piercing through to his core.

"How long have you been back in Westeros?"

"Not long. Only the time it took to reach Winterfell from White Harbour."

"Where are you staying?"

"At the inn in Wintertown. Arrived just yesterday."

They fell silent again. Sandor felt his heart thumping loud in his ear, so loud he wondered if she could hear it too. He hadn't prepared any speeches or words; all that time it had taken for him to get there, and he hadn't even thought of what to say to her. Finally he thought of a question.

"They tell that one of the Stark ladies is married. Might that be you?"

Sansa winced, but replied to him in a steady voice. "That is so, I am married to Willas Tyrell and have been these last seven years."

Sandor nodded. Of course, a noble lady like her would not stay unmarried for long. He wondered fleetingly about the choice. When he had left, Willas Tyrell had not been considered a prime candidate for an outstanding marriage. Maybe things had indeed changed while he had been gone.

Sandor opened his mouth to say that he had only wanted to see she was safe, when they heard commotion from the other end of the yard. A group of youngsters arrived, apparently from training, as they all looked dishevelled and sweaty. Four boys and two soldiers, all carrying swords and teasing one another, still high on the thrill of a good sparring. One of them broke away from the group and ran towards Sansa.

"Mother, I defeated Joren today, the first time I have ever done it! And he swears to me he didn't feign it." The boy smiled at one of the soldiers, who grinned back at him.

"That is good news indeed!" Sansa smiled at him, extending her arms to embrace the boy. Sandor looked at him, alarmed. _Of course, she must have children by now. Probably a brood of them with her lordly husband. _He looked away.

Sansa turned back to Sandor, still holding the boy in her arms. He looked strong, with black hair and grey eyes, and he stared at Sandor curiously. There was something familiar in him that Sandor couldn't quite place.

"Well done, boy. It looks like you know how to swing your sword. Your father must be proud of you," he growled.

"This is my son Eddor. He will be one-and ten on his next nameday. And Willas is not his father." Sansa's stare had something defiant in it, as if she expected him to challenge her. Sandor glared at her. If her husband was not the boy's father, who was? Then he realised what she had just said. _One-and-ten on his next nameday._

Sandor gulped, feeling it was his turn to faint. The appearance of the boy made sense now. _It can't be. It is impossible. _ He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He saw that Sansa's expression had changed from defiant to something else. Understanding? Concerned?

He stared at the boy, then at Sansa, then at the boy again. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

Sansa stood up, pointing her son in the direction of the keep. Before they left, however, she spoke to him in a low voice.

"I will come to see you tonight. Will you wait for me?"

Sandor looked up at her and nodded. She continued, "Say the words. Will you be there tonight?"

He stared at her and remembered the last time she had asked him to promise something. Then he had not replied. Now he had to.

"Aye, I will be waiting for you at the inn."

She nodded and moved away. As they left, Sandor heard the boy. "Who is that, mother?"

"He is a friend from many years ago, my love. A good friend whom I haven't seen for a long time," Sansa replied as they walked away.

* * *

Sandor couldn't have said how he found his way back to the inn and into his room. All he knew was that he reached it, threw himself on the bed and spent the rest of the day trying to still his racing heart and the thoughts swirling in his head.

_My son. Our son._

He grimaced when he thought of the condition he had left her in; carrying a bastard with an extremely suspicious paternity. He cursed himself once again for his crimes against her. It had been the darkest deed of his whole miserable life, but also the brightest moment in a lifetime otherwise so devoid of happiness or joy. Blackened ash after a flash of fire… and he had left her to bear the consequences.

Soon he realised that something didn't add up. Despite all the posturing, it was known that every now and then a maiden daughter of a noble house found herself with a bastard in her belly. What usually happened was that the babe was killed in the womb with herblore, or if born it was fostered out to a discreet family. If the lady in question achieved a less prestigious marriage than expected, nobody was usually any wiser as to why.

For Sansa to carry her son to term and keep him by her side all these years, have him growing up alongside the legitimate heirs of Winterfell, and loving him as much as was clear even from that morning's short encounter, was something extraordinary. Sandor wondered what was behind it, before his thoughts turned back to the one thing dominating his mind.

_A son. I have a son. _

Never in his wildest dreams had Sandor considered that he would have children of his own flesh and blood. Whores didn't want to disturb their trade with babes, he had never kept company with a camp-follower of his own as some other men did, and the thought of actually marrying… Even before the Kingsguard the idea had been ridiculous. Who would have wanted to marry him? Why would he have wanted to marry some girl who surely would have been wedded to him against her will?

He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, until shadows started to creep into his small room. It was just after nightfall when he heard a soft scratch against his door. He stood up, combing his hand through his hair. Why had Sansa wanted to come and see him? Did she plan to tell him to leave and never come back, choosing a place where nobody could see or hear them together? He was prepared to do just that, already resigned to his fate. He knew he would do whatever she wanted. He owed her that, and more.

Sandor straightened the rumpled sheets on his bed and went to the door. He opened it, seeing Sansa in a tattered cloak that was pulled above her head, making her look like any other woman in Wintertown going about her business.

She pulled the hood down and stared at Sandor with her amazing eyes.

"Sandor." That was all she said, but it felt like a caress, a slap. He cursed silently in his mind. How could he have ever imagined that seeing her would be simple and straightforward? That he could just stroll back into her life, make sure that she was well and didn't need his services, before leaving her again?


	6. He is Back

**_Summary:_** _Sandor seemed more serene and his permanent scowl was gone. She also noted shadows of silver in his cropped beard, and his hair, which had always been dark, had a few strands of grey at the temples. His face, although more tranquil, had deep lines etched into it on his forehead, in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. Yes, he was older, but so was she, not the ignorant maiden she had been._

* * *

**Sansa**

_He is back. He is here._

Those were the only thoughts racing through Sansa's mind as she walked back to the keep. Luckily Eddor didn't notice anything amiss and happily scooted away to follow the other boys.

She had chores to attend to and people to see but she cancelled everything, informing her maid she was not feeling well. She had held onto her composure in the yard, resorting for the first time in years to the harsh lessons she had learned in King's Landing, schooling her features not to give away the storm of emotions churning under her serene façade. When she was finally alone, and only then, she allowed herself to unravel. She sunk onto her bed and buried herself inside the blankets and furs, feeling a need to shut out everything. All she wanted was to be covered, hidden, protected from the world; she needed that to recover from the shock she had just received, like an animal crawling into its cave to lick its wounds.

_He is back. He is not dead._

Sandor had told her he had been across the Narrow Sea. Had he also said that he had arrived in Westeros just a short time ago, that he had travelled directly to Winterfell? Sansa had difficulties remembering their discussion, the words he had spoken. Tears followed her attempts to relive their meeting, silently and softly.

_He knows he has a son. _

She hadn't had time to consider when Eddor had run to her, no time to reflect on whether it was wise or foolish to let Sandor know the truth. He had been stunned, it had been clear from the way he had stared at Eddor and herself. Why wouldn't he be? There had never been talk about his bastards in King's Landing, so it was unlikely he had ever fathered any children. For a moment she was worried about what Eddor had made of the situation. Had he noticed anything? He was only a young boy and had been so excited about his win and curious about the burned warrior. Surely he had not paid attention to the undercurrent of their brief meeting?

Suddenly she became anxious that Sandor would do as he had done earlier, all those years ago, and leave before she had a chance to talk to him. Yet he had said the words, promised to wait for her.

She tossed and turned, feeling sick. She had waited for so many years…for what? What would happen now? She was determined to leave no stone unturned in her pursuit to find out what had occurred that day such a long, long time ago. She had to close that chapter of her life once and for all, whatever the end result of her quest was. No more unanswered questions.

Sansa got up at early dusk, dressed simply and covered herself with an ordinary cloak. She rode to Wintertown by herself, but that was not unusual. She was known to visit the village every now and then to see healing women, to help a servant's family that had fallen on hard times or to deliver nameday gifts to the many babes named in her honour. The guards at the gate saluted her with respect, but peaceful times had lulled everyone into a feeling of security and they were content for her to go alone.

It had been easy to find him, a man of his size always being noticed. She had pulled the hood over her head when making her enquiry to the innkeeper, but the man had not shown any particular interest towards her person. Her heart started to race as she approached the door of his room.

The door opened and there he was. As tall and broad as she remembered, and the scars on his face as noticeable as ever. However, they did not intimidate her in the slightest. If anything, she looked at him with wonderment, astounded by how familiar his features still were to her. Over the years, when she had looked back at her time with him, his appearance had always been a fundamental part of it. She might have been forgiven for adjusting her memories over time, making his looks comelier and his behaviour more gallant, just for the sake of maintaining an idealised image of her first love. She had not done that, and seeing him now in flesh he looked as he did in her dreams.

Yet something was different. Sansa had noticed that in the morning, and in the room illuminated by the flickering light of many candles, she saw it anew. Sandor seemed more serene and his permanent scowl was gone. She also noted shadows of silver in his cropped beard, and his hair, which had always been dark, had a few strands of grey at the temples. His face, although more tranquil, had deep lines etched into it on his forehead, in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. Yes, he was older, but so was she, not the ignorant maiden she had been. Suddenly she became conscious of her hips, heavier than before, and the faint lines she had recently noticed under her own eyes.

Sandor guided her towards a rickety chair next to a table, and seated himself in another opposite her, the flimsy seat creaking under his weight. She noticed his hands as they rested on the wooden surface, his calloused palms and long and graceful fingers. Strange that she had not thought of his hands for a long time, when seeing them now reminded her of how she used to be fascinated by how skilful and strong they were, doing all the tasks on their journey together. How gentle, when he had touched her.

Silence stretched between them.

"Why did you come back?"

"I am sorry I came back."

They both spoke at the same time, then stopped. After a while Sansa continued, seeing that Sandor seemed content to wait for her to talk first.

"Why did you come back?"

"I had to see that everything was well with you. I heard the song." Sandor appeared to be struggling for words and for a moment Sansa had the same feeling she had had once before, of being the stronger of them two. Mayhap she was, mayhap the man who had always loomed so large over her, first in real life and later in her memories, was but a fallible man who made mistakes like any other. Somehow the thought made her feel better and gave her confidence.

Sandor finally seemed to come to terms with what he wanted to say.

"I am much too late, years overdue, I know it. But I only heard it last year. I left immediately, but it took a long time to get here."

"You heard 'The little bird and the hound' across the sea?"

"Aye, a singer-merchant from Westeros sang it in Asshai. They told me it had been commissioned by a lady, a noble from the north." He looked unsure, as if he still harboured suspicions about whether the song was meant for him after all. Sansa answered the unspoken question in his eyes.

"I sent it for you, as you said I should. I just didn't think it would take so long for you to hear it." Again they were quiet. The years between them were not easily dismissed.

"I thought you were dead," Sansa sighed at last. Sandor winced, then looked at her searchingly.

"Why did you send that song? Did you need me, at the time? If you did, I wasn't there." He clenched his fists as he spoke, and Sansa could sense the restrained, frustrated strength in him.

She wondered what he was thinking. That she had needed his help in some petty quarrel or in a war? That she had sent the song all across Westeros just to make him come back to her for a _task? _After seeing her son – _his _son – surely he knew better?

"I needed you on the day you left. _Why_ did you leave me then?" She had not meant to say it so accusingly, but that was the way it came out of her mouth.

"I had to leave. I had just raped you, and I was a known Lannister dog. Your kin would never have allowed me to stay." He looked at her, almost pleadingly. "_You_ wouldn't have put up with me once settled with your folk and seeing me for what I was. I helped you, yes, but in the end you would have seen me for true, and turned away. Especially after…what I did to you." He looked away, his shoulders sagging as if under a heavy weight.

Sansa felt angry. It was not a feeling she had anticipated, but there it was, unmistakable fury rising in her.

"You didn't give me any chance for that, did you? If you had had the courtesy to tell me you were leaving, and why, at least I would have known what was happening!" She couldn't help herself, she was fuming.

"You just left, leaving me to wonder what I had done wrong. Had I been too wanton; had I not been good enough for you; had you just been biding your time, waiting to get rid of me!" She almost spat the last words. "No, you just rode away and left me with all the questions!"

Sansa felt tears in her eyes and turned away to hide them. Sandor didn't reply – how could he have responded to her accusations, knowing she was right? After a while she gained control of herself.

"I was with child. I gave you my maidenhood and you gave me your son." Her voice was quieter now.

Sandor buried his face into his big hands, leaning against the table.

"I didn't know. I could never have imagined… I did a terrible thing, destroyed your life!"

Sansa rose above her anger and considered him calmly. Even in her unsettled frame of mind she recognised what he had said. '_…in the end you would have seen me for true, and turned away.' _Had he really left her because he had thought she would otherwise leave _him_?

"You didn't destroy my life. Eddor is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Nothing in this world can persuade me to think that my life would have been better without him."

Sandor lifted his head from his hands. "He is…a good boy?"

"He is. He is bright, strong and capable, but he also has kindness in him." Sansa stopped and looked at him. "He is what his father could have been. A good man."

Sandor stared at her with uncertainty written on his face. "Does he know anything about me?"

"He knows that his father didn't treat me badly. I have told him that he and I loved each other -" Sansa blushed at the indirect implication her words contained "- and that he had to go away. He also knows that he was not approved of by my kin, or by many others. Yet he knows that the man who fathered him was good to me. I have promised I will tell him everything when he gets older. For the moment it is enough that he knows he was conceived in love and that his father was the greatest warrior in Westeros."


	7. Why?

**_Summary: _**Love. My son. She would have fought for me.

_He felt sicker than he had ever felt, worse than even when he had first woken up after that last battle in Asshai, his innards burning and his leg pierced with the most excruciating pain he had experienced. _

* * *

_**Sandor**_

_Loved each other? Conceived in love? _They were simple words and yet Sandor couldn't get his head around them.

He had thought of Sansa often over the years; first during quiet moments between the constant marches and battles that were part of sellsword's life, later when living a peaceful life in the community of silent men. She had come to him unbidden, as a memory of something pure and innocent. He had never cared about the Seven or any of the other gods across the sea, but for him she represented the Maiden, or other goddesses of youth and purity and _love_ of other religions.

Sandor had tried to push her out of his mind and for a while had succeeded. He had taken his due share of willing women on his campaigns; dark exotic Summer Islanders and dove-eyed temptresses from the east, ready to help a man with gold to part from it. Yet when he had been alone, Sansa had returned to him, gazing at him with those big blue eyes, smiling that small smile he knew was not part of her courtly mask of courtesy, but reserved for him alone. On some restless nights he had seen her as she had been when they lay together; naked, writhing under him, her auburn hair tousled and red lips opened for a kiss, her eyes darkened with desire. Those had been the worst memories – but also the sweetest.

He had never tried to analyse what he felt for her - some things were so fragile and delicate that naming them even in his mind could shatter them. In any case, he had cursed to himself, none of that mattered. All that was in the past, a brief moment in his hard life when he had dared to dream of something out of his reach. Of a maid, of a different life, of a meaning and purpose other than death. Only when the community elder had lectured him repeatedly about love being a redeeming feature in everyone's life, and spoken about different the types of love that existed, he had eventually felt strong enough to name it. _I love Sansa Stark. No. I _loved_ Sansa Stark. _

Yet he had never planned to do anything with that new-found information. Even on his way back to her, his driving motivation had been to help her, if he still could. He would gladly step into her service, but he would also distance himself from her if needed and serve her from afar. _Loving_ her had certainly never entered that equation.

Sandor's eyes blinked as he digested Sansa's words. He sighed deeply, and with that sigh he accepted his absolute and utter surrender.

"I have done you so much wrong, little bird. Anything I can do to make it better you need to tell me, lay it out plain as a day. If you want me to leave and never return, I will. If you want me to serve you, I will. Whatever you want, I will do," he spoke softly.

Sansa looked at him and he felt himself wilting under that gaze.

"You still didn't answer my question. Why did you leave; which one of the reasons I conjured up in my mind was the real reason? Or if none of them, what was it? I have tried to find the answer for so many years, and now that you are finally here and can tell me the truth, I will not let you go before you do." Her voice was calm but steely.

Sandor tried to think of how to explain her what had gone through his mind at the time. He was still shocked by her earlier words; that he might have thought her _wanton_, or not good enough for _him,_ or that he might have _wanted_ to get rid of her. He started to gradually understand that he had hurt her more than he had ever imagined, but in a different way than he had thought. The realisation sickened him.

He started, slowly and unsurely. "I was not a good man then. I know you came with me only because I could save you from the court and take you back to your family. I also knew…"

Sansa shifted, leaning closer to him, her eyes flashing.

Sandor shot a look at her under his brow and continued, "…I _thought_ that once you got to safety, you would realise that I was _not_ the man you believed me to be. After that last night, when I lost my control and took you like the brute I was, I knew I had hurt you. That I had damaged you in a way that could not be forgiven, not even by you."

Sansa didn't say anything but didn't move away either.

"I couldn't have endured you despising me. You had just started to trust me, and losing that…" Sandor stopped, swallowing hard.

Sansa just sat there, frozen. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her slender fingers. "Is that it? You left me because you thought I would have eventually turned against you?" She opened her eyes and Sandor nodded.

It was her turn to sigh. "I wouldn't have. I was hoping you would come back, for your reward, or to return to me. I would have fought to keep you in Robb's service." She looked so very tired and Sandor wanted to reach out and touch her, but didn't dare.

"In the end I had another fight on my hands, when… I found out I was carrying Eddor."

"How could you keep him? I am sure there were other options, other ways to deal with it." Sandor felt he needed to know.

Sansa laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Yes, there were other options. My mother tried to make me take herbs. For a while I refused to eat anything she offered, and eventually Robb had to intervene and make her promise she would let me be." She looked ahead with unseeing eyes.

"When he was born, they tried to take him away from me, telling me he would have a better life with a good family in the village. I was weak, I had lain in my birthing chamber for two days and nights… but I refused. I told them that if they intended to steal him, I would run to the woods with him and live my life there."

Sandor could only imagine the strength required from her to oppose her mother and brother, to stand up and fight for her babe. The steel in her, of which he had seen glimpses at the court and on their journey, was evident from the way she spoke and from what she had done.

"I am so sorry." It felt weak and pitiable to his ears, but Sansa turned to him.

"I am not. He was all I had of you."

Again they fell silent. Sandor didn't know what to say next, but then he thought of something, something she had said in the morning that didn't make sense.

"What about your husband? Does Willas accept him? Why aren't you living in Highgarden?"

"He did. Otherwise I would have never married him. And we did live in Highgarden for a while, but that was not for me, nor Eddor. We came back here and I haven't seen Willas for five years now. Our marriage is one of correspondence by ravens' messages, and that suits us both well."

Sandor felt relief from her words. Not that it mattered - or did it? - but knowing that Sansa was not going back to her husband that evening, gave him some odd consolation. He lifted his head.

"You still haven't said why you sent that song. What did you need of me then? Do you need me still? Just tell me what you want me to do. Leave, stay, fight your battles, kill your enemies?"

"After all I have told you, why do you think I sent that song?" Sansa stood up from her chair and pulled the cloak tighter around her. "If I asked you to come and meet your son, would you?"

Sandor swallowed. Suddenly his throat was dry as parchment and with difficulty he croaked, "Of course I would. I would very much like to see him again."

"Come to the Winterfell Godswood tomorrow at midday. I will bring him there."

Sandor nodded, but that was not enough for Sansa. "Say the words. Tell me that you will be there."

"I will be there, you have my word."

They looked at each other for a while longer. His grey eyes met her blue gaze, and although they didn't speak, they both recognised that something was exchanged through that connection, something that couldn't be put into words. Yet. Then Sansa turned and stepped out of the door. Sandor stared at it for a long time after she had gone.

_Love. My son. She would have fought for me._

He felt sicker than he had ever felt, worse than even when he had first woken up after that last battle in Asshai, his innards burning and his leg pierced with the most excruciating pain he had experienced.


	8. Father and Son

**_Summary:_**_ "Sansa." The way he said her name in his low, raspy voice was a caress, and she submitted to it, closing her eyes. Yet he didn't move. Sansa opened her eyes again and from the way the muscles of his arms and his neck tensed, she knew him to be holding himself back, like a predator ready to pounce._

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Sansa hardly slept that night. She went through her meetings with Sandor over and over again in her head. How he had looked, what he had said.

_He cared about me. He left me because he thought I would turn away from him._

He had been shocked to see Eddor and discover that he was his son. Was that too much for him? Sansa had had a hard time imagining Sandor as a father, but he had clearly changed. The rage and scorn was gone, and it was as if he had reached some sort of inner peace. She wondered how that had happened. Life as a sellsword was hard, and few of them lived long. Even fewer became better people through their occupation, being treated as human weapons and fodder for wars.

* * *

In the morning Sansa told Eddor that they were going to meet her old friend from the previous day. Eddor was excited to hear that he was a sellsword from across the sea. He asked Sansa about his face, in the curious and straightforward way children do.

"Did he burn himself in a battle? Or did a dragon do it?" His eyes widened. Everyone knew about the famous Targaryen dragons, but the only time they had been this far north they had simply flown past Winterfell. They had been on their way to the Wall to finally put an end to the threat of the Others, and Eddor had been too small to understand what the small specks high up in the sky had been.

"Neither. He had an accident when he was just a boy, younger than you. Probably better that you don't ask him about it though." Sansa walked briskly to keep up with Eddor's running steps, and as they approached the centre of the Godswood, they saw Sandor there already.

He jumped up from the log he had been sitting on. He looked tired, and Sansa guessed his night had not been any better than hers.

"Eddor, this is Sandor Clegane, my old friend. He is from the Westerlands, but he has lived across the Narrow Sea for these past many years. If you ask him politely, he may tell you where he has been."

Eddor was, for once, silent, looking up in awe at Sandor. "Good day, ser."

"I am no ser, boy," Sandor said, but his voice was not angry. Soon they were talking about the places Sandor had been, the armies he had fought against, the cities he had visited.

Sansa sat down on the log and looked at them while they conversed. When they were together, their resemblance was obvious. Both had the same hair, eyes and sharp cheekbones, and Eddor was already showing signs that he would grow up to be a man of formidable size and bulk. Sansa's eyes swept over Sandor appreciatively. She was aware of how, despite her anger and frustration last evening, she hadn't been able to close her mind to the way he affected her physically. His powerful body and the strength it emanated had made her feel weak and maidenly all over again.

Shaking her head and forcing her thoughts away from the dangerous path they were taking, she considered what she should do next. She knew that if Sandor came back to Winterfell with them, anyone seeing him and Eddor would immediately recognise him to be the boy's sire.

Sansa hadn't told anyone about Sandor's return yet. Many people in Winterfell wouldn't remember the famous Hound anymore, his name having vanished like that of so many others who had fought and disappeared in the War of Five Kings. Yet there were enough of those who would, her mother and brother amongst them, of course. Sansa winced. She didn't really worry about what anyone else said, but she wanted to figure out what _she_ wanted first, before letting the news of Sandor's return slip out.

Looking at the two of them she marvelled that the day she saw her son with his father had finally arrived. She couldn't help smiling at Eddor's enthusiasm. The boy had lost any reservations he had had earlier and was interrogating Sandor with increased vigour. To her delight the large man reciprocated and responded to him with infinite patience. His eyes focussed on the boy with an intensity that would have been disconcerting for Sansa had she not known the reason for it.

Eventually it was time for them to go. "Eddor, time for your lessons. Maester Lesser will be waiting for you."

Eddor looked at her with disappointment written all over his face. "Do I have to? I still have so many questions for Lord Clegane."

"I am no lord either," muttered Sandor, but pushed Eddor lightly towards Sansa in a way that showed that he didn't mind.

"Yes, you do. Run along now, we will follow you," Sansa told him. Eddor resigned himself to his fate and started traipsing towards the Keep.

"He is a fine boy. You have done excellent work in raising him." Sandor stepped to her side and they walked slowly. "I am grateful to you for allowing me to meet him."

"You needed to see him again. I like to believe he is very much like you…could have been."

"He is better than I ever could have become," Sandor muttered.

Without stopping to think, Sansa asked, "Will you wait for me again tonight? There are still things I want to discuss with you."

Sandor turned to look at her, surprised. Without Sansa needing to ask him, he stopped and said, "Aye, I will wait for you. You have my word." They resumed their walk.

"Maybe it is better that we don't go to the Keep together."

"For sure. You go ahead, I will find my way through another gate."

Sansa hurried after Eddor and reaching him, stole one more glance behind her. Sandor stood where she had left him, tall and strong, watching them. Seeing Sansa's look, he nodded at her, holding her gaze until she turned back and took hold of Eddor's hand, secretly glad to have him to support her as they walked through the woods.

* * *

Sansa knew her way and reached the door to Sandor's room just after sunset. She was nervous, her stomach in tight knots. What was she doing there? What did she want from him? There had been nothing else on her mind the whole day, but still she was no closer to a decision. It was clear that Sandor only awaited her instructions; to go, to stay, to do whatever she wanted him to do.

What _did_ she want?

Sandor opened the door and stood aside to let her in. She noticed that he had bathed; his hair was still wet and hung flat. As she passed him, she was aware of his presence in a way that reminded her of their times on the road. She had been but a young girl then, easily overwhelmed by a man of his size and strength. She was a woman now, and with the maturity gained over years recognised that what she had experienced then had not been timidity or submission to someone so much stronger than her, but something else. She closed her eyes and took in his scent; something unmistakably masculine, a hint of sweat from the clothes he wore, a whiff of horse and…him. She remembered that smell as its memory unlocked itself from the deep recesses of her mind, and it took her back in time in a way she had not known to be possible.

With utmost certainty she realised that her feelings all those years ago had been true. She had been more woman than she had thought, and in him she had found her man. The night that Eddor had been conceived … During the dark hours of the previous night she had allowed herself to go back to it, for so long banished from her thoughts. The way he had made her feel, the heat of his touch, the heady mixture of emotions and sensations from passion to tenderness to surrender to triumph and joy. Her throat constricted at the memory of it.

When she had gone to her marriage bed with Willas she had half-expected a similar experience, thinking that was the way things were between men and women when they laid together. The truth had been far from it. She had been ill at ease and Willas's embraces had been awkward and done nothing to flame her senses. When he had entered her, it had not been painful, but she had been aware of nothing more than a strange intrusion into her body, followed by friction which - though at times felt passingly pleasing - made her wonder if _that_ was what bedding was supposed to be. With Sandor, despite it being her first time and involving some pain, she had discovered what it was to forget herself – no, to truly _be_ herself - and experience the closeness and intensity of being with the man she wanted, so united that it was as if they were one.

Even before she sat down on the chair next to the rickety table, she knew that she was lost.

Sandor was better prepared this time, having ordered some wine and cheese from the inn and offering them to her. She accepted a goblet and sipped wine while trying to sort her thoughts.

"You said there were things you wanted to discuss with me," Sandor grunted, toying uneasily with his goblet. Sansa looked at his fingers, the way the hairs that covered his arms trailed down to the back of his hands and persisted all the way to his knuckles and fingers. _Hands that could kill…or caress._ She shivered.

"Yes…" she said, trying to buy some time. She thought she finally understood what had driven him that day long ago; how he had felt so much for her that he had left rather than face her rejection. Yet many years had passed since then, and he had lived such a different life. He had come to her, however, as soon as he had heard the song she had sent to call him back. Why? Was it because of his sense of duty? For some misplaced loyalty he had been famous for?

Did he still care about her?

Sansa knew that Sandor expected her to say something, but she had no words. Instead she reached towards him and touched his arm. He stopped fidgeting and looked at her. His eyes were serious and intense. She saw him swallow and moisten his lips with a quick flick of his tongue.

"Sansa." The way he said her name in his low, raspy voice was a caress, and she submitted to it, closing her eyes. Yet he didn't move. Sansa opened her eyes again and from the way the muscles of his arms and his neck tensed, she knew him to be holding himself back, like a predator ready to pounce.

_He expects a sign from me._


	9. Room at the Inn

**_Summary:_**_ They had only started to map each other's bodies with gaze and touch, and they took their time to explore those new unchartered territories. That tour of discovery was a novel adventure and somewhere along the route Sansa knew with utmost certainty that she never wanted that journey to end._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Seeing his son had raised utterly new and unheard sensations in Sandor. That this strong boy so full of life was _his_ seed, born of Sansa - a mysterious mixture of the two… he simply couldn't comprehend it.

He was grateful for the meeting, knowing full well that he didn't deserve it. He hadn't been there when Sansa had fought for her child like the wolf-mother she was. No, he had left her alone at the worst possible time - and as if that hadn't been enough, he had also failed her when she had called for him. By all rights she should hate him, deny him his son and send him away.

When Sansa had asked to see him again he had felt a jolt of joy, but soon realised she likely only wanted to let him know of her wishes in private. Sandor knew he couldn't show his face in Winterfell, lest people drew conclusions from how much young Eddor resembled him. Sansa had kept the identity of his son's father secret so far, he had understood. There was no need to shame her with his presence and the revelation that an exile sellsword and the dog of the enemies of her house had shamed her with a bastard.

* * *

Sansa was in his room again, oddly quiet. Sandor was content to wait and hear what she had decided; prolonging the inevitable was the best he could hope for. He studied Sansa as she sipped her wine and was struck again by admiration for the strong woman she had become. Her beauty was radiant and enticing, but that was not why she had held his heart all those years. And still did, he admitted to himself, sadly and with regrets so heavy he didn't know how he could carry them after leaving her.

Sandor concluded that Sansa didn't know how to tell him the bad news, so gentle a heart as she had. To help her, he reminded her of her own words.

Her touch took him off guard.

"Sansa." He didn't know what else to say. When she closed her eyes, Sandor felt the tension build inside him and became aware of how his body became coiled in preparation for a battle. The same pounding of heart, shallowness of breath, tautness of his every muscle.

Suddenly Sansa stood up. Sandor looked at her, disappointed at her decision to leave so soon. However, instead of going to the door she moved around the table and came to stand next to him.

"Sandor." That was all she said, but it sounded like a caress; the way she breathed his name, emphasising both syllables. It was his turn to squeeze his eyes shut; he hoped that by doing so he didn't have to see her leave.

Suddenly he felt her touch on his face. Her fingers brushed the burned side, sliding from his brow to his chin. Sandor leaned into that touch, refusing to think what it might mean, only thankful for having it.

"Sandor, look at me." He blinked and stared at her. The whirlpool of her blue eyes pulled him in and he was captured in their depths without a way out.

"Would you like to stay…by my side?" Her voice had a vulnerability he had not heard in it before.

Had she asked him what he thought – what he _hoped – _she was asking? Mattered not, he had to answer her truthfully.

"Little bird, is the winter coming? I want nothing better than to stay, you must know that." Sandor was still leaning into her palm and in a moment of daring he turned his head slightly and kissed her wrist. Sansa didn't pull away and that encouraged him. He raised his own hand and captured Sansa's in a gentle but firm grip, pulled it against his face and pressed more kisses on it. Each kiss saw him gradually moving further up until he reached the crook of her elbow and stopped there, still pressing his lips against her skin.

Sansa sighed, and from the way her whole body relaxed, he understood she had given him her permission. As if to confirm it she leaned over him and whispered in his good ear, "Then stay. With me."

Gingerly, fearful of breaking the spell, he reached for her and pulled her near, turning in his chair. She stepped between his legs and allowed him to wrap his arms around her and draw her even closer, so he could press his face between her breasts. Even then she didn't withdraw but yielded to his grip. For a moment Sandor only breathed in her scent, the same scent he remembered from his dreams, mixed with a trace of some flowery, herbal aroma.

Sansa's hands stroked his shoulders and twirled his hair and he had never known touch so light and yet so heavy. Sandor moved his head slightly and felt the firmness of her breasts against his cheeks. Looking up at her, the question he didn't dare to voice was answered when she tilted her face and offered him her lips. They kissed, softly at first, lips hardly touching, their breaths mingling. When neither of them pulled away the kiss deepened and soon they held on to each other with increasing desperation and fierceness, as if trying to make up for lost time. The taste of her lips was better than anything Sandor had savoured and he felt himself drown in her embrace.

After an interminable time he stood up, lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed.

* * *

_**Sansa**_

Sansa yawned and stretched like a cat, roused from her dreams by something. What had it been? She turned her head and saw Sandor sleeping peacefully next to her, his hand resting on Sansa's waist. That was it; he had pulled her closer, although seemingly still in deep slumber.

The morning light had banished shadows from the room, but it was still early. Her gaze swept around the simple chamber detecting cob-webbed corners, stained window-sills, dust on all surfaces. Despite its shabbiness it was like the finest parlour to her after the night she had just spent there and she couldn't prevent a silent chuckle. Next she fixed her eyes at the form lying beside her; his peaceful face, his muscular arms and broad chest. It was thickly covered with dark hair, with only a few silver bristles among them.

Sansa saw numerous scars covering Sandor's body, the signs of past hurts. She winced - how was it that he had survived such a deadly profession for so long? It must have been by his skill and strength alone. She swore that one day she would hear the stories of his wounds, each one of them, just like she would make him tell about everything that had happened to him since they had been apart.

* * *

Their lovemaking had been an odd combination of passion and reverence. Sandor had devoured her like a man famished, and she had returned his every kiss and touch with an intensity that had scared her. When his hard manhood had eventually glided along her wet folds, it had been an alien intruder, a reminder that she was still a _woman_, not only a mother, a sister, a daughter – a woman ready to love and to be loved. The sensation had shot weird and wonderful sparks of pleasure through Sansa's whole body, and anything she remembered from their fumbling first encounter paled into insignificance when he had finally entered her. She had never been filled so completely and her whole being had focussed only on that powerful awareness, forgetting everything else.

There had also been moments when they had joined in more than flesh. Sandor had stopped once, deep inside her, and studied her with an intensity that had both fascinated and frightened her. Not because of _him_, but because of what _she_ felt. The way she gave herself to him completely and how he reciprocated worshipping her with his body. They had gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, recognising their shared sadness and regret, but also tenderness and joy of finally being together again. She hoped he could read those things in her eyes as clearly as she could in his.

He probably had, as after a while he had exhaled a satisfied sigh and resumed his motions, thrusting into her slowly and deeply, over and over again, while never stopping to caress her. His touches had been as unpractised as she had been unprepared for them, but had nonetheless brought her to the brink of that elusive sensation she had experienced only that one time they had lain together. Sansa had not been able to hold out long and had cried out while waves of pleasure coursed through her body, tears streaming down her face; tears of grief and joy.

Sandor had followed her soon after, groaning his own release against her hair. Afterwards they had collapsed in a gasping heap of arms and legs tangled together so she couldn't have said which were hers and which were his. Once they had recovered their breath they had nestled against each other in the narrow bed, embracing each other tightly, trying to be as close as possible.

They hadn't needed words, sighs and soft murmurs being enough at the time. Sandor had trailed his fingers across Sansa's body, touching her skin softly and hesitantly, almost as if he expected her to break if he pressed her flesh too hard. When he had reached her stomach he had reverently traced along the faint marks at her lower belly, which marked her as a woman who had carried a babe in her womb.

"What if you get with child again after what we just did?" he had murmured in a low voice and looked at her hesitantly.

"If that should be so, I would be happy, and so would Eddor. He has always wanted a sibling," Sansa had purred, resting her hand on top of his.

"You can't be serious, girl! Your husband not being here people would gossip, don't think they won't. Your reputation would be soiled once again."

"Don't you call me girl, or I shall call you _ser_," Sansa had snapped, but smiling. "So what? My reputation is beyond repair, and as I have been accepted so far, why would that make any difference? Besides, people will know about us soon enough anyway."

To Sandor's raised eyebrow she had murmured, "Do you think that I will let you go now? No, you will stay with me. You told me you will do whatever I ask of you, and I ask you that."

They hadn't continued their discussion, both being claimed by sleep soon after, exhausted by the sleepless nights over the last few days, and the passion they had just shared.

* * *

Sansa turned and trailed the tips of her fingers across his chest. She savoured the sensation of his bristly hairs against her sensitive fingertips and the way she could twirl them around her fingers. Emboldened, she swept her hand further down, where the wavy texture changed to coarser near his groin. Suddenly she thought she felt something and pushed their covers aside to get a better view. True enough, she saw his manhood starting to harden and followed it with giddy curiosity.

"You didn't get enough last night, little bird?" Sandor muttered in a sleepy voice, but there was softness in his tone and he moved his hand from her belly to her breast, making Sansa shiver in anticipation.

"Never!" she whispered and pressed herself against him.

Their second time was slow and unhurried. They had only started to map each other's bodies with gaze and touch, and they took their time to explore those new unchartered territories. That tour of discovery was a novel adventure and somewhere along the route Sansa knew with utmost certainty that she never wanted that journey to end.

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sandor thought he had died and gone to the afterlife some eastern religions talked about, where brave warriors were served by maidens with slender limbs and ample bosoms. Except that in his afterlife he was lying next to an auburn-haired woman with a soft body and belly with scars telling of her battles; battles which men could never even imagine.

He still couldn't believe what had happened, as he skimmed his lips across her breasts and felt her responding to his touch in a way that took his breath away. The young girl from his dreams had transformed into this voluptuous woman, and _she was real. _Sandor closed his eyes and tasted her, licked her, savoured her and wished never to let her go.

* * *

Eventually they had to get up. Sansa worried that her unannounced absence would worry her kin, most of all Eddor, so Sandor went downstairs and ordered some food and writing implements. When they were brought to his room, Sansa wrote a note to her mother assuring her she was fine and would be returning later that day. After Sandor had paid for a servant boy to deliver the note to Winterfell, they resumed their morning meal.

Sandor looked at her across the table, the graceful way she broke her bread and sipped her drink. Although he had already placed his fate into her soft hands, he was curious to find out what she had in mind. He couldn't believe last night could have been a mistake on her part, something which was never intended to be more than that. No, when they had been joined together, he had seen it, he had felt it – they couldn't be parted now. As much as he had difficulty in believing it, her behaviour and words had convinced him that she truly _wanted_ him by her side.

"What now, little bird?"

Sansa swallowed the piece of bread she had been chewing. "I will go to Winterfell and get things ready for you to join me there. I would ask you to come with me this very day, but first I need to tell Eddor. He has been without a father all these years, and I have to give him some time to think it over."

Sandor leaned back, wondering how she was going to organise that. He couldn't really hide himself, and her kin and castlefolk were soon bound to detect his presence no matter how discreet they tried to be.

"Don't you think people will notice? If they see me, it doesn't take a maester to figure out where Eddor got his looks."

"Oh, that doesn't matter. I don't care if they do – actually, I will tell them myself. I will announce to everyone that you are his father and you have finally returned to me."

Her boldness impressed him. "What about your kin? I am sure Lady Catelyn and Lord Robb are not any keener than before to see me back. Would you try to get me into the Lord's service? Or would I serve you?"

Sansa lowered the cup in her hand and looked at him squarely. "You will be in nobody's service anymore. You will be by my side, as my lord husband in all but name. I expect that eventually you may want to do something and I am sure Robb would appreciate your experience in training his men or leading his guards. As long as none of that will take you away from me."

Sandor opened his mouth – what she was talking about was quite extraordinary. Before his words came out she pushed ahead.

"My kin will accept you this time. They know it was not a young girl's misplaced gratitude that drove me before. When I returned from Highgarden I told my mother the reason why my marriage failed – because of you. I know she understood it then."

Although her answer was more than Sandor had hoped, he realised something even more important.

"What about your lordly husband? He will surely not stand by and do nothing if you shame him publicly."

Sansa sighed. "I think he will. He knows everything, including the truth about Eddor. And when I left Highgarden I owed it to him to tell him why I did it. He knows my reasons just as my mother does." She looked at Sandor and lifted the corner of her mouth. "I believe somebody once told me how bad a liar I was, and how truly honourable characters, such as dogs, never lie. I only tried to follow that advice."

"So you may, but he is still your husband. Men don't take these things lightly."

"Yes he is, but he is also a good man. And we wouldn't be flaunting it in front of him in Highgarden, or at court. Even if he disapproves…I wouldn't care. I can fight when I have something worth fighting for, as you know by now. It is unlikely that he will start a war because of it, anyway. Even if he did, I bet I'd have a more experienced war leader in my camp than he does." Sandor knew Sansa was teasing him, but only just.

He was stunned. Sansa had fought and won for her son, and now she was prepared to fight again - for him.

_The wolf-mother. The wolf-mate._


	10. New Pack

**Authors' Notes: **It is amazing how much things have moved on even in just ten months (I hope for better!). Reviewing this piece again was much more work than I anticipated; I suddenly noticed many awkward turns of phrases, clichés, dubious passages and overall poor writing…and undoubtedly if coming back in a year's time will roll my eyes for the quality of _current_ writing – but that's life!

I can't believe how well received this has been and how generous you have been with your comments – THANK YOU! They really stimulate and inspire me, so my humblest thanks to all of you…

**_Summary:_** _It had been years since he had slept with his mother, but as he curled next to Sansa it was easy to forget that he was a boy grown and had seen ten namedays. They played childhood games long put aside, Eddor squealing in delight when Sansa tickled him, in return burrowing into her and teasing her so mercilessly that she had to soon surrender to him in breathless fits of laughter._

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa planned to leave as soon as feasible, keen to tell Eddor the momentous news. She craved having Sandor in Winterfell as soon as possible, but not unless her son – _their_ son – was comfortable with it.

She considered it better to keep up with the subterfuge for a while longer and go on her way alone. They kissed their way through slightly awkward goodbyes in the room, their newfound intimacy still being so very fresh and raw. As Sansa stepped out into the front yard, she looked around her in awe. All her senses were heightened; the crunch under her foot sounded louder to her ears, the sun peering through wispy clouds seemed brighter and the smells wafting in the cool morning air were sharper and more intense. She saw people hurrying to do their chores and couldn't understand how they could behave as if nothing had happened. _Her_ life had been just thrown upside down – how could the rest of the world move on as before?

She glanced at the window she knew to be Sandor's and saw his tall figure behind it, looking down at her. At that sight something inside her broke and she turned back, ran up the stairs, through the corridor and to the door Sandor had already opened, straight into his arms.

They stayed in bed that whole day, loving each other and sharing fragments of their pasts, bit by bit. They continued their explorations of each other's bodies, kissed until their lips were raw and chafed, then rested contentedly in a tight embrace, talking in quiet voices. Sandor told her about the community of silent men and how they had changed his life. She kissed the ridged scar tissue on his thigh, silently blessing it. She was sure that without his injuries and the kind men, he would have eventually died in some foreign field, never returning to her.

Afternoon shadows had started to fall by the time Sansa reluctantly stirred herself from his arms.

"I have to return. I need to find Eddor and tell him about you and us, and give him some time to think about it before you join us."

"You reckon he will accept me?" Sandor muttered, toying with her hair. Sansa had noticed how he couldn't seem to get enough of it, burying his face against it, brushing his large hands through it, playing with the long auburn strands.

"I hope so. He knows much about you already, but he is the kind of boy who wants to think things over and come to his own conclusions in his own time, and it can't be hurried. He also tends to keep some things to himself, not unlike his sire." She smiled a wan smile when she said that, refusing to think of how much it had cost them that Sandor had done just that.

* * *

Sansa found Eddor with Maester Lesser. He was keen to follow his mother, happy for any excuse to escape boring lessons on the history of Westeros. They went to Sansa's rooms, where Eddor settled easily on the couch, fidgeting in anticipation of hearing what his mother had in store for him. Suddenly Sansa was nervous. How to explain to a ten-year-old who had grown up without a father, that his life was about to change? Not only that, but also that what she was planning would be scandalous and unheard of, and would only increase the amount of gossip and societal pressure they would be subjected to.

"Eddor, do you remember what I have told you about your father?" Sansa started. Eddor nodded.

"You remember I told you how we loved each other, even though it was not proper? How he went away because my kin didn't approve, and how I always missed him?" She hadn't told Eddor the reason for his departure, and considering she herself had only heard it two days ago, she was glad she had never tried to give him her own interpretations as to why.

"You also remember that he was the most famous warrior in Westeros at the time, the strongest and the most skilful? How he was considered by some also to be the ugliest?" She glanced at Eddor.

His expression started to change, and he raised his head to stare directly at her. _He knows, he is not stupid_, Sansa thought. She didn't have to continue further when Eddor spoke.

"Mother, you must be telling me this for a reason. Is this about your friend, Lord Clegane?" His expression was calm.

Sansa stretched her hand out to touch her son. Normally he would have squirmed and tried to avoid it, embarrassed by the way his mother treated him as a child when he was already almost a man grown. However, he didn't mind when she placed her hand on his arm and stayed still, looking keenly at Sansa.

"You are right, it is about him. _He_ is your father. He has been away, but that was because he didn't know you existed. As you are learning about him right now, he only learned about you two days ago."

Eddor took a deep breath, then stilled. Sansa's heart raced as she studied his face, so familiar to her and yet at that moment so… grown-up.

She hoped Eddor's own experiences would help him to understand what it was to be an outsider, rejected and denied as his father had been. She had always wanted to protect Eddor from the cruelty of the world, but in Highgarden he had been subjected to it nonetheless. There for the first time he had been teased and called names, and like any young child he had been hurt by it although he hadn't truly understood it at the time. In Winterfell nobody dared – or wanted – to call him bastard, but every now and then a visitor broke the code, jeering at how a noble lady's shame was so openly flaunted. Those visitors were usually quickly silenced and sternly chastised by the castlefolk, and if they didn't learn their lesson the first time, they soon found themselves evicted.

She allowed the silence that ensued, knowing her son was careful to express his views on any matter rashly. Eddor stared at his hands, his face unreadable. For a moment Sansa worried that she had overestimated his ability to take in the confusing news. Then he spoke.

"Does this mean that you will be happy now?" Sansa felt tears in her eyes, so relieved she was at his words. Her son had understood immediately what the revelation meant, not only for himself, but to his mother, whom he loved as fiercely as she loved him. Due to circumstances, and despite all the love his kin showed to him, Eddor had always been unusually close to Sansa and their bond was stronger than that of many other mothers and their sons. Sansa smiled at him and squeezed his hand.

"Yes, I am _very_ happy. I know this is a big change for you, but I hope that in time you will be happy too. I don't expect you to embrace him as your father straight away; I know he is a total stranger to you and it will take a while before you get to know him. All I ask is that you give him a chance."

Eddor looked at her again, uncertainly. "Do you want me to call him _Father_?"

"No my sweetling, you don't have to. But don't call him 'Lord' either, nor 'Ser'. He is neither, although he could have been both – but he didn't want it. He is not like most men, as you will learn. Just call him Sandor."

"Very well…." An enquiring expression crossed Eddor's face. "Will he stay with us? If so, where will he live?"

"He will stay here, and he will live with me in these rooms."

"Will you wed?"

"I wish we could, but we can't as I am still married to Lord Willas. I will write to him to explain everything, and I hope he will understand." Sansa leaned closer to Eddor.

"This will be highly unusual arrangement, and most people will not understand it. Just like they didn't understand why I was never ashamed of you, even though you were born out of wedlock. I am being honest with you, Eddor; people will gossip, they will point fingers. They will call me names if I dare to live with the man I love although my husband still lives. They may call you names too – but at least you know that you now have a father that is truly yours. You may not be able to take his name, but you will always be a Stark. Yet do we care about what people say? As long as we know what we do is right for us, and we love each other; you, me, Robb, Jeyne, Arya, Rickon, grandmother Catelyn, all your cousins…and Sandor."

Eddor nodded affirmatively. "We don't care what other people think." He raised his head proudly, and yet again Sansa was struck by the way his mannerisms mirrored those of Sandor. She had known him all along to be much like his sire, but after she had seen them side by side that had become even clearer.

She squeezed Eddor's hand again. "This has been big news for you. If you want, you can skip the meal in the Great Hall tonight, and we can have our meal brought here. Would you like that?"

* * *

They spent the evening in Sansa's rooms, mother and son, almost like the days when they had lived together when Eddor was but a toddler. He had only moved into the room he shared with Robb's eldest a few years ago, as was the custom for young boys when they became older. However, as night arrived, Eddor stayed with Sansa.

It had been years since he had slept with his mother, but as he curled next to Sansa it was easy to forget that he was a boy grown and had seen ten namedays. They played childhood games long put aside, Eddor squealing in delight when Sansa tickled him, in return burrowing into her and teasing her so mercilessly that she had to soon surrender to him in breathless fits of laughter. After exhausting themselves in the childish games they both secretly enjoyed, Sansa told Eddor more about Sandor; how she had first met him, how he had saved her from the hands of her jailors and how misunderstandings had separated them.

She kept things simple, knowing Eddor to be too young to understand all the intricacies and the complicated histories of the alliances and hostilities of the war fought so long time ago. The frailties of human heart were even more difficult to explain to a ten-year-old, so she kept those matters simple as well. After all, what really mattered was that he knew Sansa and his father had loved each other, and were in love still.

Eddor listened to her intently, asked a few questions, but mostly seemed to be content with the things Sansa told him.

"What do you think about Sandor arriving to Winterfell tomorrow?" Sansa asked him. "Are you ready to face him – and the reaction of the people, when they see him and you and learn the truth?"

Eddor scrunched his face contemplatively. "I wish he would come here as soon as he can. Can I be there to greet him when he arrives?"

Sansa was surprised. "Are you sure? You are most welcome, and I know it would mean a lot to him, but it may be difficult at first. People will stare and they will whisper."

"I don't care. I would rather meet that head on than hear people snickering behind my back." Eddor's voice was steady and Sansa realised that the little boy who just a moment ago had shrieked with the joy of being a child again, was truly growing up. When had that happened?

That night, when Sansa hugged her son's gangly limbs and stroked his dark tresses she wondered how her heart could contain all the love that was welling inside it; love for her son, love for Sandor, love for the family unit she knew they would form.

_A pack of hounds and wolves._


	11. Blessing

**Author's Notes:**Oops, I realised I made a small error of calculation – there is actually going to be 13 chapters in this, not 12… Just as well I didn't choose a career in mathematics, LOL! Or maybe I was just superstitious?

**_Summary:_**_ He walked straight, not glancing at either side of him. He heard some loud intakes of breaths, heard hushed whispers and from the edge of his vision, saw some hands pointed at him. Seems that not everyone has forgotten about the Hound. He felt a ridiculous pride rising within him, mingled with shame at knowing that the Hound people thought they saw was not him._

* * *

_**Sandor**_

Sleep evaded Sandor, although lack of it over the past few nights pressed heavily on him. In the darkest hour of the night he gave up his restless stirring and went for a walk in the nearby woods, trying to adjust to what was happening. He had journeyed across the world for something…but what he had found was beyond his wildest dreams. He closed his eyes and felt a sudden dread that everything _was_ just a dream, from which he would soon wake, only to realise that he was alone in his chamber in the house of the silent men in Asshai.

He opened his eyes and saw the faint outlines of tall northern trees against the moonlit sky, heard the screeching of owls on their nightly hunts and smelled the wafting aroma of pine and moss in the air. He could still feel the traces of Sansa's soft kisses on his body, could feel his blood coursing hot through his veins and with that, the awakening of senses that had been dormant for so long. _This is real. This is truly happening._

* * *

In the morning he waited patiently for Sansa's promised message, endless hours of standing on guard or waiting for a battle to commence allowing him to maintain his sanity despite his increasing anxiousness as the hours dragged on.

Finally his patience was rewarded in the form of a small note brought by a sullen-faced boy wearing the Stark sigil. _'Come at once'_ was all it said, but that was enough. He packed his things knowing that one way or another, he would leave now and not come back. He might stay in Winterfell – or mayhap not. Despite having trust in Sansa, he could not extend that same faith to her kin. If he was turned away, he would leave the North and go somewhere else. Whether Sansa and Eddor would follow him, he didn't know and didn't want to think about.

* * *

As Sandor approached Winterfell he wondered what he should do. Ask for Lady Sansa at the gate, or enter the yard and wait for her there? However, none of that was necessary when he saw Sansa and Eddor outside the gate. Sansa was dressed in her noble regalia, all flowing velvet and stiff cloak of brocade, her hair and throat adorned with large stones cut in rough shapes, the stones dug from northern quarries. Eddor was dressed sombrely in adult clothes and stood almost as tall as Sansa. It was clear he would grow up to be a big man.

Sandor was conscious of his travel-worn clothes and unkempt appearance, but there was nothing he could do about that. He stopped and dismounted his horse. He didn't know what he should say or how he should greet his son, whose presence made him pleased and nervous at the same time.

"Sandor!" Sansa's smile washed over him and she extended her arms. Conscious of the guards, Sandor took her hand and pressed a brief, courtly kiss on it. As he straightened, he saw Eddor watching him intently. He coughed.

"Eddor, I believe your mother has told you some things." He stopped, unsure of how to continue.

"She told me that you are my father." Eddor's eyes didn't flinch and Sandor had an uneasy feeling of being under his scrutiny. How he would be judged at the end of it, he couldn't guess.

"Aye, I am your father. I never knew it, though. I was away, but came back when I heard that your mother needed me. It took a long time and I am sorry about it, I truly am, boy." Sansa twined her fingers between his and squeezed them slightly, giving him courage to face his greatest challenge.

Eddor looked at Sandor. "Do you want me to call you father?"

Sandor flinched. "I couldn't ask you that. I wasn't here when you grew up, so I haven't earned that right. Call me by my name, Sandor or Clegane, whichever you prefer."

"Very well… Sandor." Eddor seemed to relax and turned to his mother, as if wanting to know whether he had passed some unspoken test. Sandor looked at her as well, wanting to know if _he _hadpassed.

Sansa smiled at both of them and tugged at Sandor's arm. "Come with me. We'll get servants to take your horse and deliver your belongings to my room. Then I will introduce you to my kin and to the good folk of Winterfell."

"Are you sure it is a good idea that he comes along?" Sandor muttered under his breath as they walked across the keep. "It could get ugly."

"He himself asked to come. He prefers to meet challenges head on rather than hide behind my skirts." Sansa glanced at Eddor, her face clearly showing the pride she felt. Sandor was impressed. Did that mean that Eddor accepted him? He would have to ask Sansa about that later – but the signs were good.

* * *

Hand in hand they walked towards the Great Hall. As they entered, they saw it was almost full; minor lords waiting for their petitions to be read to their liege lord, other nobles of the North, men-at-arms, soldiers, merchants, visitors and servants. Lord Robb was sitting at the high table on the dais with his maester and councillors. Ladies Jeyne and Catelyn were sitting at the side of the room sewing, but also paying attention to the events in the hall.

As they walked towards the dais, Eddor first, Sansa and Sandor behind him, still holding hands, people started to notice them. One after another they stopped what they were doing, turned their heads to gape at them and fell silent. Soon all was quiet, and Sandor could have heard a needle drop in that cavernous hall.

He walked straight, not glancing at either side of him. He heard some loud intakes of breaths, heard hushed whispers and from the edge of his vision, saw some hands pointed at him. _Seems that not everyone has forgotten about the Hound. _He felt a ridiculous pride rising within him, mingled with shame at knowing that the Hound people thought they saw was not him.

Eventually they reached the dais. Robb had raised his head from the scrolls, sensing the silence engulfing the hall and his expression had changed from mild curiosity to alarm. Before he could say anything, Sansa spoke.

"Robb, you remember Sandor Clegane? He is back and will be staying in Winterfell. With me." She gazed assuredly down at her brother. Robb swallowed and glanced at Sandor, clearly taken off-guard. Sandor saw he had changed from when he had last seen him; he was older and more mature, a lord and powerful warden of the North in truth.

"Sansa, this is…big news, and unexpected, for sure. I welcome Clegane to Winterfell, but let's discuss this later." Robb's face appeared pained, and his gaze flickered towards his mother.

Lady Catelyn drew a ragged breath and stared at them, her hand clutching her throat. Lady Jeyne eyed them with mild curiosity, continuing her sewing. Sandor stared resolutely ahead, determined to play the scene whichever way his little bird wanted.

"We shall. In the meantime I will organise his accommodation in my rooms." Sansa turned to her mother.

"Mother, you recall all the good Sandor Clegane has done to me and to our house? Could you please make sure he will be set a place next to me at the high table tonight?" Lady Catelyn nodded weakly as in slow motion, all colour drained from her face. Sansa turned then to the crowd on the floor. She spoke with commanding voice, staring at the upturned faces facing her.

"People of Winterfell, this is Sandor Clegane, the father of son Eddor and my companion from this day forward. He has been away these many years, but now he is back to stay. I trust he will be welcomed by you all."

Sandor saw astonished faces, some of them flinching at the sight of him, some staring at Sansa disbelievingly. Many eyes darted between him and Eddor and he gained irrational satisfaction from the notion that it was all that was needed to prove Sansa's words true. Sansa didn't seem to be perturbed by the glares and after saying her piece, strolled down the stairs confidently. As they were still holding hands, Sandor had no chance but to follow. Eddor stared at the crowd defiantly and likewise followed her mother.

As they walked towards the door, Sandor could hear the noise increasing as people started to talk, shocked by what they had just heard. He felt admiration for Sansa's daring and Eddor's defiance, but at the same he also felt slightly mischievous and would have grinned had he not wanted to give an impression of seriousness. _There you have it!_

* * *

They walked across the courtyard to the private quarters of the family and soon reached Sansa's chambers. Sandor glanced around him curiously, seeing a neat solar with practical wooden furniture, hangings depicting animals and the magical woods of the North covering the walls and a smaller door presumably leading to her bedchamber. Sansa gestured Eddor and Sandor to sit down, and Sandor wondered what would happen next. Had Eddor come to some kind of conclusion? Would he lash out at his absent father, the man who had caused his mother so much sorrow?

As if sensing his thoughts Sansa clasped his arm and rested her head against his shoulder. "Eddor, we both know that this must be hard for you. If you have any questions, about _anything_ at all, do ask."

Eddor shifted on his seat. The mature youth from earlier had transformed into a young boy again, but to Sandor's satisfaction he didn't seem overly upset.

"Does this mean that I will be getting sisters and brothers of my own, like Brandon?" Brandon was Robb' eldest son, the same age as Eddor and his best friend in the whole world. Robb and Jeyne had been blessed with four boys and two daughters, and although they were like siblings to Eddor, they were still only cousins and sometimes he had expressed dismay at not having siblings of his own.

Sandor startled and glanced at Sansa, but she only smiled. "Mayhap, time will tell. Would you like that?"

"Yes I would! No sisters, but a little brother would be nice," Eddor exclaimed.

"We'll see what we can do," beamed Sansa at him. "In the meantime, if you want to join the others at training, you are free to go. Would you like us to come with you and tell them the news?"

Eddor shook his head. "No need. I can tell them – if they haven't already heard." He grinned, then stood up and walked towards the door. He opened it, then stopped with his hand on the handle and looked over to Sandor.

"Lor…Sandor, you fought in all the important sellsword companies across the sea, didn't you?" As Sandor agreed, he continued. "You were in the Kingsguard too?"

"Verily so. Can't say it was a high point of my career, but I _did_ serve a king once, or a sort of."

"You also know how soldiers across the sea fight? I hear they have quite different ways from us."

"I know many and more sword skills and how to defeat your enemy. I can show you - and your cousins - a thing or two, if you wish. Things like how Dothraki screamers use their curved blades, 'arakhs', they are called, or how the Asshai fight with two short swords instead of one broadsword, and many other ways besides."

Eddor flashed him a quick smile, then closed the door behind him and was gone.

Sandor had so little experience with children that he wasn't sure if he could tell what Eddor truly felt from the way he had behaved. He turned questioningly to Sansa.

"How did he take it?"

Sansa smiled at him. "He has thought it over and it looks like he has made up his mind and accepted you. As a matter of fact, he might even be proud of you; a renowned warrior who has served in exotic places and in the Kingsguard. Not many of those in the North, I'm afraid. However, I thought things like that might impress a boy of that age"

"Hmmph," was all Sandor could say. Sansa stood up, moving towards Sandor's saddlebags which had been brought to her rooms. Before she had even touched them there was a knock on the door. Both thinking it was Eddor coming back, Sansa rushed to the door and pushed it open. Instead it was Lady Catelyn.

"Mother!" Sandor saw them staring at each other. He had never taken a liking to Lady Catelyn, especially after he had heard how she had tried to make Sansa give her babe away. _Didn't take long for her to come here to give the little bird a piece of her mind. _He wished he didn't have to sit there.

"Sansa. I wonder if I could have a word with you." Lady Catelyn stepped in, then stopped when she saw Sandor.

"Of course, Mother, please come in."

Sandor greeted her curtly, wondering if she would bother to hide her scorn towards him until he was out of earshot. He stood up, thinking it better that he made up some business elsewhere. Lady Catelyn stared at him and when she noticed that he intended to leave, she stopped him. "Please stay…Clegane. What I have to say involves you too."

Sandor winced, but settled back on the couch. Sansa sat down next to him, deliberately taking his hand in hers and gripping it tightly.

Lady Catelyn sat down opposite them, raising her eyes to meet Sansa's. Sandor was taken aback by how much like Sansa's they were up close; bright, blue and unflinching. Lady Catelyn was still a beautiful woman, and he found himself thinking that if the little bird took after her mother, she would be a beautiful woman for a long time still. Remembering how Lady Catelyn had seen her husband murdered and her family scattered to four winds, Sandor felt a touch of sympathy he had not expected.

"Sansa, I know you have been unhappy for a long time. I really thought that by marrying Lord Willas you would find at least some quiet satisfaction and contentment in your life. I believed that what you felt earlier, when you were still so young and vulnerable, was only a young girl's foolishness, falling under the influence of a stronger soul." Sansa opened her mouth and, apparently anticipating her objections, Lady Catelyn raised her hand to stop her.

"I have known for a while, however, that I have been wrong all these years. With him returning," she shot a sideway glance at Sandor, "I can see already that you are happier." Sansa tried again to speak, but Lady Catelyn still ignored it, continuing.

"All I came to say is that I understand what you are doing. It is against every fibre of my upbringing and what I have been raised to believe, but if it makes you happy, I will accept it. You will have my blessing, whether you need it or not." Her gaze softened perceptively as she watched Sansa's astonished expression. She turned to examine Sandor next.

"Clegane, you have to believe that all I have ever done has been in the best interest of my child – as I perceived it at the time. I realise now that my daughter's happiness depends on you. I hope that you will not betray her trust."

Sandor was stunned by the turn of events. He was aware of how much her mother meant to Sansa and had never wanted to jeopardise that.

"Thank you for your good words, Lady Catelyn. I may not be what your daughter deserves, but I have changed from times past. I will do my best to keep her happy, you can believe that."

"Well, that is all I had to say. I can add that Robb and Jeyne feel the same, as do all who love you, Sansa. Rest assured that Clegane will be welcomed tonight at the Great Hall and will have a seat at the high table with the family."

Lady Catelyn stood up, brushed her skirts with the same gesture Sandor had seen Sansa do so often, and turned to the door. Sansa rushed after her and hugged her tightly, whispering something into her ear. Her mother kissed her cheek, brushed back her hair and smiled a brilliant smile so much like Sansa's. Then she too was gone.


	12. The Most Unusual Arrangement

**Author's Notes: **It is time to reveal the reason for the story prompter shigureblack's choice for the excruciating 11 years gap before Sandor's return! According to her, it _was "[…] because I also wanted some POV on the son. Sometimes San/San fics only focus on those two and never on the children […]. I just want some insight on what a son would think, his interactions, and his feeling/anger on a father he did not know. Would he even embrace him as a father? I think eleven was just about the right age for him to know some things about the world […]."_ So hence this chapter starts with Eddor's POV…

**_Summary_****:** _At first he had felt a twinge of jealousy, afraid that he would lose his place as his mother's favourite. These concerns had been allayed the previous night when she had told him in no uncertain terms that he would never stop being her number one priority. Although she loved Sandor, Eddor was the one who was part of her and that bond could never be threatened._

* * *

_**Eddor**_

Eddor had always known he didn't have a father like other boys did. Most of the time it didn't bother him; his uncle Robb was as good as one for him, and Lord Willas had treated him as his own son when they had lived in Highgarden.

He had asked his mother about him, and over the years he had gradually heard his story. A renowned warrior, a feared fighter and non-ser of the Kingsguard. He knew that the king in question had executed Eddor's own grandsire and warred against his House, but also that his father had abandoned the bad king and changed his allegiance to his mother. Eddor could never understand the not-a-knight part of it; if a man was a member of Kingsguard and a famous warrior, surely he had to be a knight as well? His mother had however been adamant, telling him he had chosen not to be one.

One thing Eddor had been even more puzzled about was why his father had left, if he and his mother had been in love - but adults sometimes did strange things without a good reason, as far as he was concerned, so he had let that be.

Eddor had also learned what other people thought of his circumstances. 'Bastard', he had been called, and although initially he hadn't known the meaning of the word, it had sounded like something unpleasant. He had asked many people about it, including his mother, his uncles and aunts, his grandmother and other trusted friends. Although he hadn't understood everything they had said, he had concluded that basically it meant that his mother and father had not been married when he was born. And somehow that was a bad thing.

Eddor walked towards the training yard, thinking hard about his new situation. The events of the last few days had been exciting to say the least. The man who turned out to be his father was like no other man he had met before. First of all, he was _huge_, and something in his demeanour showed him immediately that he was not a man to be taken lightly. Yet he had been kind and answered his many questions patiently, unlike some other visitors who looked down their noses at him, not bothering to respond to a young boy's queries with any level of seriousness.

He had been equally repelled and fascinated by Sandor Clegane's appearance, but after his mother had explained the reason for it, he thought he understood it better. His friend Tommo, son of Winterfell's ironworker, had fallen on the forge when he was but a toddler, and had carried the signs of that incident ever since on his torso. He liked to proudly show the puckered and scarred tissue on his back to other boys like some kind of battle scar, so the sight of burned flesh was not new to Eddor.

Eddor had been impressed by Sandor's knowledge, and how he had seen and experienced so much outside Eddor's own limited knowledge. Foreign lands and exotic cities – it had been as if the stories of far-away places he had always loved had come to life when Sandor had described them in his rasping voice. That this huge, mean-looking man could be her mother's good friend had been difficult enough to believe – but that he was Eddor's own _father_, was something else.

He had seen how happy his mother was, and how she smiled easily and looked at the scarred man with an expression Eddor had only seen her direct towards him before. At first he had felt a twinge of jealousy, afraid that he would lose his place as his mother's favourite. These concerns had been allayed the previous night when she had told him in no uncertain terms that he would never stop being her number one priority. Although she loved Sandor, Eddor was the one who was _part_ of her and that bond could never be threatened.

Eddor reached the yard and could see that the news had travelled ahead of him. As soon as his cousins and their tutors saw him, they fell quiet and stared at him as if they had never seen him before. Finally Brandon moved.

"Eddor, is it true? Has your father returned?" His face was curious. He had been Eddor's best friend ever since they had been babes, and they shared _everything_. He knew as much as Eddor about his history, and had been equally mystified about why the adults had made everything so complicated.

"Aye, it is true." Eddor didn't know why he used the word he had only recently heard Sandor using, but it sounded serious and solemn and he liked the sound of it.

"Is he as ugly as they say he is?" Brandon ignored Joren's attempts to shush him.

"No…he is not ugly, he only has half of his face burned off, like Tommo. It might have been a dragon." Eddor added that as an afterthought. It was _possible,_ he concluded, for a man so widely travelled. Maybe his mother didn't know everything.

Brandon was impressed, as were the other boys; Warrick, Benno and Eddard, all Robb's sons.

"My father has fought in all the best sellsword companies across the Narrow Sea; in the Golden Company, Second Sons, Long Lances and the Company of the Cat. And many others besides; in armies far, far away in the east, beyond the Dothraki Sea and Red Waste. He was in the Kingsguard as well, wore a white cloak for the Baratheon kings." Eddor was getting excited, and the other boys listened to him with increasing enthusiasm, seeing acts of extreme bravery and heroic battles with their mind's eyes.

Eddor had saved the best part last. "He said he is happy to show me how the Dothraki screamers use their curved blades! And how the other soldiers over there fight with their swords!" Seeing the disappointment in other boys' faces, he added, "He said he can show it to you too."

Cries of delight followed this announcement, and Eddor found himself thinking that maybe having a father was not a bad thing at all.

_**Sansa**_

Sansa could almost _feel_ the stares they attracted when entering the Great Hall that evening. In her younger years she might have been intimidated by them, but after all she had gone through, she took them in her stride with ease. Sandor walked tall and proud next to her, as befitting the role in which he was now cast...although what that was, even Sansa wasn't sure. _Paramour of Lady Tyrell? Natural husband of Lady Stark? _

People they passed stared at them openly and whispered to each other in low voices, but when she glanced around she couldn't detect malice in anyone. She knew she was held in high esteem by the folk in the North, especially since her return from Highgarden. She had taken up many duties from her mother, and with Jeyne being busy looking after her ever-growing brood of children, Sansa had naturally settled into the role of the lady of the castle. She managed the household, servants and even men-at-arms when it came to domestic matters.

She also knew that the folk in the North were less mindful of social conventions than those in the South. The Ironborn had salt wives, wildlings stole their wives – and sometimes their husbands – and marriages celebrated in front of the Seven didn't carry the same weight as those conducted in front of the weirwood and the old gods. Still, open adultery and cohabitation with a man when one's husband was still alive was not common – but Sansa was prepared to make her stand and be an exception to the rule. With Sandor and Eddor by her side there was nothing she couldn't tackle.

Lady Catelyn, Robb and Jeyne rose from their seats to welcome them to the high table, indicating to all in the household that the unconventional couple had the support of the Lord of Winterfell and all of House Stark. Sansa saw Sandor had been set a place on her right, and they settled in their seats as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Sansa stole a glance at Sandor and admired his countenance, knowing that the experience must have been uncomfortable for him. That he endured it with good grace because of her made her love him even more.

Rickon welcomed them excitedly, having apparently been fully briefed by his family, and he, Sansa and Sandor exchanged a few pleasant words while the food was being brought in. Arya, who had not been in the hall earlier that day, sat on Sansa's left and watched Sandor with narrowed eyes.

Since Arya's return from Braavos they had put aside their petty childish squabbles and learned to love and trust each other as adults. Arya was still wild and unconventional and neglected to behave like a true lady, and had taken a role in the defence and training of the northern forces instead. She taught them new and unusual techniques of dispatching their opponents, and had gained the respect and admiration of the folk just as Sansa had.

Sansa was not worried about Arya's condemnation – she was, after all, hardly in a position to say anything. It was an open secret that the dark-haired blacksmith with strikingly blue eyes, who had arrived in the North soon after Arya's return, was her lover. When Sansa had enquired of Arya why she didn't marry the man, she had announced that she didn't believe it was necessary. Sansa knew one of the reasons to be that Gendry was so conscious of the gulf between their positions, and resisted any attempts to make it official. He was also probably the only person in Winterfell who thought that their relationship was clandestine and not known to all. Maybe Sansa scandalising the household with her brazen behaviour would encourage Gendry to finally do something about his situation with Arya.

Sansa noticed Sandor's uneasiness and reassuringly patted his thigh under the table. In the course of the evening his stance relaxed, and overall the night went better than either of them would have expected.

* * *

That night they slept together in Sansa's bed. It had been comfortable for her, and the nights when Eddor had climbed in to sleep next to her it had easily accommodated the two of them. However, for her and Sandor it was too small and they ended up spending most of the night spooning against each other in a tight embrace. Not that either of them minded – but as she woke up, Sansa decided she needed to talk to the castle builders that same day to commission a bigger bed.

Somehow that practical and domestic little detail made her finally realise in the most tangible way possible that all that had happened was _real_. Sandor had returned to her and they were going to stay together until the end of their lives.

"Sandor," Sansa murmured sleepily and reached for him. Sandor yawned and stretched his long limbs.

"What is it, little bird?" he muttered. Sansa opened her eyes and drank in the sight of him as she had so many times before over the last few days. _Few days! _After eleven years it had taken only_ few short days_ to irrevocably change her whole life, and his.

She had experienced in the past the feeling when her heart's fondest wish had been fulfilled. When she had been a child, it might have been a whole plate of sweets or a new doll, and when she had grown in years it might have been her first gown made in a grown-up style. Later still her fondest wish had been a golden prince as her betrothed. All those wishes, once fulfilled, had led only to a fleeting happiness, the last one turning into an unspeakable nightmare.

Without being able to explain it to herself Sansa knew that her happiness this time was different. It would not wilt or fade. The man next to her, the man who had suffered but grown strong, the man who had lived a life marred with hardships and cruelty, yet had not lost that soft spot inside him that contained his humanity – he would guarantee her happiness. That, and the strength she had found inside herself and relied on until it had become an essential part of who she was.

"Sandor," she repeated. "You will never leave me, will you? I don't have to send another song after you, do I?"

Sandor, now fully awake, pulled her against his broad chest. His fingers swept along her face as he whispered into her hair, softly.

"No, little bird. Do you truly think I could go away _now_? I will never leave you, you have my word on it. The only song you have to worry about is one about the little bird and the hound finally finding each other."


	13. EPILOGUE

**Author's Notes:** This is it, time for another little tale to end! As much I love writing, it is also with a deep sigh of satisfaction that I end this, happy to have completed something again... And once more, you dear readers have carried me in your arms throughout this story with your lovely, funny, supporting and encouraging comments - thank you a million!

*turns gaze into new exciting possibilities, new ideas, new frontiers*

**_Summary_****:** _Only a few more grey hairs in his beard and hair showed his increased years, as otherwise he was still the strongest and most imposing man she had ever seen. He could still defeat any soldier, knight or lord of the North in a bout, and take Sansa's breath away just by looking at her in a certain way._

* * *

**Sansa**

"Eddor! Where are you?!" Sansa shouted impatiently, glancing around the yard. She carried a big, wrapped package in her hands, trying to balance it against her hip, frustrated at how her swollen belly thwarted her attempts to find a good position.

"Here I am, mother," her son's drawling response came to her. She turned and watched him approaching. He was tall and still somewhat gangly in the way young men often were, despite all the bulk and muscle he had built through hard training. He was also handsome, his strong features and grey eyes forming a pleasing picture to all women who appreciated manly qualities. Sansa knew it was not only a mother's pride making her think so. Most of the young women in Winterfell had lost their hearts to her eldest son's good looks and easy manners.

"Here, take this book to Willas. It is about birds-of-prey, newly sent in from across the sea and I am sure he will enjoy it." Eddor took the tome handed to him and put it under his arm.

"Aye, I will throw it in with all the other gifts. Had I known we'd become a trader's caravan I might have sold my warhorse and bought a wagon instead," he moaned.

"Hush, it is not often that a procession such as yours goes South. It is only fitting that you take some gifts with you. Willas and Edmure are doing us a great favour by taking you as their protégée and teaching you the ways of the world, and the least we can do is to show them our appreciation."

Sansa knew Eddor and his cousins were unusually old to start their traditional education in another noble household. To her surprise both Robb and Sandor, who had risen to Lord of Winterfell's second-in-command, had wanted to delay their departure, and Sansa and Jeyne had readily agreed. The North had to always be prepared to stand on its own, and the future rulers of that ancient seat of power growing up elsewhere during their formative years would risk them being exposed to distracting influences.

Yet the time had finally arrived for her son to spread his wings, and as much as Sansa hated it, she knew it was what Eddor needed. He was going to join Lord Willas's household in Highgarden, whereas Brandon and Warrick were to enter into their great-uncle Edmure's service. The young men had decided to travel down the Kingsroad together and were eagerly getting ready for their first big adventure.

"Eddor!" a high-pitched voice cried, and young Rachelle ran after her brother. She was only six years old but already active and courageous in a way Sansa knew she had never been at that age. She was Sandor's daughter through and through, with hints of her aunt Arya, and her younger brother Rickar adored her. Indeed, the three-year-old waddled after Rachelle as usual, shouting his own excited exclamations.

Eddor leaned down and scooped his little sister into one arm, his little brother into the other and laughed. "Rachelle, Rickar, have you decided to come with me after all and enter the service of Highgarden?"

"Careful son, Rachelle might do just that if you encourage her." They heard Sandor's raspy voice as he strolled towards the group. Sansa glanced at her paramour and the father of her children and felt a swell of pride at the sight of him. Only a few more grey hairs in his beard and hair showed his increased years, as otherwise he was still the strongest and most imposing man she had ever seen. He could still defeat any soldier, knight or lord of the North in a bout, and take Sansa's breath away just by looking at her in a certain way. She had learned to recognise that gaze as the prelude to a night of passion – whenever they managed to get away from their children.

"Don't worry, father. Give her a year or two and _then_ send her to me," Eddor grinned.

"Shush Eddor. Next thing I know you'll be demanding that we send the new babe, fresh into this world a few weeks hence, as your squire. Nobody is sending any more of my children away, at least not for a while." Sansa reached out to seize Rickar, who squirmed unhappily in her arms. Before she knew it, Sandor had hastened to her side and taken his youngest son away from Sansa. She recognised the chastising look he threw at her, knowing how he was always so concerned for her health when she was with a child; first with Rachelle, then with Rickar and now with the new babe. She chose to ignore it although his concern warmed her.

"Come now, all of you. It is time for the farewell feast in the Great Hall. You have a long day ahead tomorrow."

"A feast! Will there be singers?!" exclaimed Rachelle, who had been set down and ran towards Sandor.

"There sure will, my little hatchling. What would you like to hear them sing?" Sandor led his daughter by her hand.

"I want to hear 'The Little Bird and the Hound'! How the hound came back, and how the bird and the hound hiss, just like cats do!"

"No my sweetling, they kiss, not hiss," muttered Sansa, leaning her weight against Sandor's strong arm as they walked back towards the keep.

**THE END**


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